The pilot caught wind of it all, The captain led it straight, Grass weavin' its way through the links, of a tall, well-rusted gate. They made it the way they wanted, They designed the paper to peel, Once white with the flower print, fades and cracks like it feels. They designed the books to crumble, They contemplated its age, Just how much the floorboards would creek, At what time, at what stage. The pilot burnt the edges with care, The captain made it smell the way it do, The way the dust collects on the figurines, of the porcelain Christ that frightened you. As a child, it remains the same, Now that we're grown in late November, How well-aged it all remained, It grows even more and more peculiar.
Reason for writing:
http://www.angelfire.com/tx/cosmicjive ; This poem is dedicated to the strange haunting feeling, sound, and scent of an old abandoned house left with its belongings.
Birth sign: Not entered
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