Pother

There came a lingering sensation,

That something out there was not right.

That something moved and slipped and scuttled,

In the dark and dead of night.

Opaque windows, dim with dirt,

Began to heave like lungs.

The winds outside howled loud and angry,

As rain lashed glass like cobra tongues.

In sudden silence came the noise.

A cacophony of clattering,

Amongst the remnant smattering

Of rain on pane...

Like tin cans battering, glassware shattering,

And then…

An old man flattering.

“A fine fine house,” he said with silk.

“A fine fine place of fine fine ilk.”

Fingernails against the door,

First 5, then 10, then seven more.

Scratching, scratching, now a knock.

“Let me in; unlock this lock.”

No breaths are drawn within this room;

No eyes meet eyes as shadows loom;

And in the window stares a face,

Without expression, merely grace.

“A fine fine house,” says this old man.

He thinks and looks and sees.

“A fine fine place for you, my friends,

And a fine, fine time for me.”