Cobwebs shudder from ancient breath.
Floorboards creak like fearful
meaningless prayers of man's
pitiful ancestors.
The leaking tap splashes
against the banks
of the River Styx.
The moon is some wretch's idea
of a shiny blank canvas
for that witless artist
to sketch illustrations
for the book of the devil.
The window is a crude gateway
to the dead's droning sanctuary.
The wind doesn't just blow,
it has come.