The faded police tape a warning archived today,
The impenetrable barrier of old brittle plastic,
Surrounding the broken house full of history now,
Events causing actions which appear drastic.
A manor built hundreds of years before memories,
Supported by plants climbing the concealed walls,
The foliage avoiding the broken and jagged windows,
The eyes of the house that sees souls fill its halls.
Nobody owns the two acres full of twisted trees,
Grown from weeds that seeded many years ago,
A green screen hides the derelict house from view,
Masking the horror and torment hidden from show.
For fifty years the plants have squatted on the land,
Blocking the driveway to all but the most curious,
But just a few have been brave or stupid enough,
To hack their way through the woods was laborious.
A few went into the old derelict house that hot day,
One came out changed forever by his time inside,
He only says one sentence repeatedly to the nurses,
“Whatever we do now, we cannot run away or hide.”
He stares blankly out of his white hospital window,
As if he was seeing his tormentor every single day,
The souls of the mansion have taken his own sanity,
But unlike his friends they didn’t take his life away.
The falling down house has a foundation of lives,
Fertilising its ground with its victims’ cold flesh,
Like a venus fly trap slowly sucking their lives away,
When the temptation draws them into its mesh.