Lost Cottage

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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