visited the old house today
long neglected but won’t go away
once lovely rose garden hiding crimes
a haunting forest of tangled thorns abandoned
in all this time the ivy vine entwines
like a new owner on a rampage
trying to conceal the ghostly screams

the empty walls have no muffling
still whispers mock with dirty secrets
reminders of scars clawed upon my soul
so many skeletons these walls hold
closets filled with evil laughter
we tried so hard to hide
the terror buried deep inside

till these walls have died
every brick and mortar crumbled
secrets rise at midnight
with a mighty rumble
to dance an evil celebration
of the soul’s damnation

©dorianna ric
all rights reserved

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12 thoughts on “Damnation

  1. O, I do like this, D! Somewhat of a departure for you…but rich and well executed. I always thought of old houses..even new ones as important characters in tale-telling. Bravo, poet!

    1. Thank you Jackie, your comments are always so encouraging. I wrote a story with the house telling the story of its occupants. I will have to post it one day. Old houses always fascinated me, oh the secrets within their walls. It is like they speak to you.

  2. You have really given the reader a picture of this ‘old house.’ Makes one wonder what secrets all old houses hold & what the homes would say if they could share. Sounds like THIS house could really speak of some dreadful terrors. An evocative poem!

  3. whew…powerful…those places…through the first part made me think of my grandparents old place…and returning there so many memories…not so dark…but there are those dark places where the secrets rule…shiver….

  4. Don’t know whether to laugh or cry: such emotional entanglement, affection and fear bound together. You really make your words create a haunted scene and a mysterious history.

  5. House seems like a living thing. The ghosts of memories remain until it is demolished. I my experience. (WOW!) You got me remembering the old farm house. Mom and Pop, four children,
    and six live-in hired hands–all 4-F. Lot happened there also.

    Sure would like to read your story when you write…about the house. I saw a child–or children–hiding there in a closet. And pain, hurtful things. Maybe not what you meant…but dark, nonetheless. Thanks!

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