The skin glued to soles of shoes
A whisper of gnarled white hair in the wind
The fingers wrinkled, washing away the dirt
From the bodies of youth
In a white bath tub, the claws glinted –
The glare of shifting day.
She spun the yarn, and it snagged
Like a scab caught, it tore.
The sunbeam of red dribbled
Over the rotting boards,
And a winged creature, short lived,
Flew into the howl.
A monster lives in the attic,
It lives on fear and death,
The cry of the end.
The day was alive.
But the people were not.