Haunted (Glass House)

-Lalah Delia-

With every step taken, the sounds emit sound waves. 
The wind chill split ends, and chap skin. 
An unknown force triggers the stiffening of Hair, 
Along, the contour of the neck. 

Goosebumps spread like chilblains. 
An echo that ricochets off the baseboard,
As if projectiles were thrown towards the Backboard. 
A civil uproar at the front door of a broken home.

Here you can hear the screams of a thousand 
Men who have been killed and tortured. 
Their blood-soaked furniture still stands in The corners of this dilapidated home. 

In a vintage test tube. 
A house in the hill where death finds refuge. 
Within these walls, where the hollow lives. 
The bellow of ghost haunts the soul.

A warning to disregards without thought or Reason.
The sounds of creaks,
Unsettling. 
Far too many minds enclosed within an empty Residence. 
What life sentence possesses an individual to Seek shelter.

On the surfaces lie the dark remnants of Whitewashed lines
And cold case files. 
The freezing cold sits still. 
The stench feels thick and unavoidable. 

It sticks cold and wet to flesh, and the Further it goes.
The colder it gets. 
Its noxious residues weigh heavily on the Lungs.
As a stale Newport. 

The creaks stir madness, as they persist. 
The more we resist, the louder it gets. 
Each step connects the ends where the heart now races.  

A cloth hangs from the chains of a ceiling Fan. 
Still, a vessel sits under the hem in the Darkness. a harbinger of evil 
Awaits within the shadows. 
The figure smiles this crooked, sinister, toothless grin. 

Emblazoned, the image is burned within. 
A fire erupts besides. 
He tries to scream, but no sound escapes. 
A deafening sensation sets in. 
Closed doors are the threshold to the Dark Lord. In his madness, he rushes
Towards restlessly. 
The vision becomes blurred, as light Dissipates. 
This fate now belongs to the glass house.

Forever fault lies in sex crimes relying on The alter, to restore 
Us to our former glory. 
If only it were that simple to rip at the lines the confine you.
But revenge is the sweetest treat, and we will Not be beat. 
The messenger bird does not deserve the bullet To the breast.
So, invests in self; confess. 

The room looks better when the light bream brightly.