Lichen Poem. Old, Mold, And Cold

Old, Mold, And Cold By Caden738

This old house has sat for many a century

The floors grow colder, as you walk on

The floor sinks when you sit

The pantry is filled with moldy bread

Unknown spirits drown you with strange thoughts within your head

White walls, only so from the asbestos

Dark floors only so from the lead

The smell of bug flesh overpowers that of the dead horses in the field

Laughter can be heard in the night

Shadows can be seen in the moonlight

No owner has survived the first year

They’re either taken by the sword or the spear

I was the seventeenth proprietor

I was not told of the woeful past

Like I said the first year… I did not last

I was taken during daylight broad

I was sold by twilight

I never Escaped, I just died again

I died in happiness, and kindness

I became old, and bitter

Now leave young son from this land

Before you die.

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