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This house
was my `fortress
my private sanctuary
every item of furnishing
a marker
of ruthless success
cheerful in the day
in the closing night
in worrying shadow
weary and chained in regret
I upon my curtained bed

My lamp
beside my bed
would not the darkness penetrate
I heard the creak
before I saw the closet door
slightly open
fear gripped
my weakened mind
demanded sanity
there can be no dire shade
in that tiny darkened space

The handle
rattled cold
insisting my mind
stay in possibility's terror
a talon-ed hand
gripped the jamb
as my gut rolled
stinging sweat
fell into my eyes

The question
what made this horror
there in my closet
did one final transgression
heaped on a lifetime of sin
denied and justified
beget this avenger
hell's warrant served
the condemned knows
justice due

ken lehnig(c)2011


Why is doing what you love the hardest thing to do? Is it because failing what you thought defined you would be too devastating a thing from which to recover? If so, we stay where mere accident has left us.

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The following comments are for "Haunted 6"
by jonpenny

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