Its bones squeak and creak
Beneath my feet
Whenever I walk.
Whenever I walk
Down the neverending flight of stairs
Or through the maze of hallways.
It sighs and it breathes,
And traps me inside
Of each of its rooms
And behind every locked door.
The shadows in the hallways
And the mirrors in the bedrooms
Like to watch my suffered cries.
The mouths of the paintings,
The whispers of the ghosts,
All talking about me.
The pitter-patter of dead children
Running across the floor
As they giggle at their words
Provide little comfort to me.
The bars on the windows
Make sure light never escapes into my room
To provide warmth in my shivering fit of madness.
And the slow drip of rain
Outside of this hell
Is there to constantly drive me insane.
The flickering of the dying candles,
The scent of festering mold,
And the walls that begin to crack and break
Are just a reminder of what is yet to come.
As I pick at the chipping paint
Of my windowsill,
And pull out my hair strand by strand,
I can hear a whisper.
But I can't decipher its tone.
Is it God? Death? My own thoughts?
The deafening whispers flood my brain.
They say that
I'm inside of it,
And it's inside of me.
