Bottles of wine, 1786
(the glass was stained),
Everything covered in dust
(Mostly dead skin),
Sky blue and white tiles with names and dates engraved
(All past residents),
And sunshine in a basement.
It wasn't a crematorium
But that's what I called it.
Maybe the dust looked like smoke,
But I named it before I saw it.
It was an exact replica of the upstairs floor,
Just old and eerie.
Then there was an open box
With a newspaper at the top
(I woke up before I saw what was under),
It was opened to a page,
A story on a past resident
A pig;
A murderer;
With black eyes that glistened,
Like stones were glued on the page.
The eyes held nothing
And I was afraid.
