Silence, save for the whispers of
crickets — their symphonies a call of
invocation for a home where squirrels play
& spiders weave their stories.
Stretching its weary arms towards the cornflower-blue skies,
a haunted sanctuary
stands, arrested in the color of the forest around.
The floor, unaware of where the earth ends
and it begins, chooses to end.
Somewhere within the floorboards, within the depths of
a refuge,
a blood-soaked rose lives, fighting its way out of a hoard of vines.
Its thorns pierce the fingers of death.
This home, a story of persistence.
