Lost Cottage
When he walked across the floor,
the squeaky planks creaked.
The rays of light in between
danced upon our lifeless cheeks.
I think any sane person would
have already chose death.
But her ghost whispers secrets
that she will soon draw breath.
Her hair was like dirty strands of grass
that was weathered by the rain.
Her skin was made from the barren soil
that was patted before her grave.
The striking pupil in her eye
stared up through a serpent hole.
It was an invitation to join her
in the mausoleum down below.
For I think she dances in a masquerade
in a glittery gown stitched of red.
These ideas bloomed in the subconscious,
past the gunshot wounds in her head.
She crept up from the cellar that night
and was very shortly caught.
We all cried out for the worse as
we heard the roaring gunshots.
We are but kidnaped children
in these forgotten woods.
Grown up now. Alive, somehow.
Bound under the floors where
his cottage stood.
While he’s laughing, we are crying.
The child souls inside us, slowly dying.
You know when he holds down your wrist,
you can escape by sleep but never escape his scent.
If I could free my hands,
I would grab that sharpened pipe.
If she would awake from her coma,
we could escape by tonight.
I have nightly fever dreams
of freeing that pervert’s soul.
To finally look him in the eyes and say,
“how do you like squirming
at the end of my pole?”
Lost cottage up the hill,
where boys and girls endure their hell.
Lost cottage, I know you will,
conceal the crimes of this infidel.
For we’ll be ghosts before the eclipse.
And haunt you before life leaves those lips.
You might think you have this life made.
But in death we’ll eat your soul
like Happy Birthday cake.
-Brandon Defiance
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