'Twas Christmas eve
and all around the house nothing stirred
not a rat
or even the wings of a vampire bat.
Not a sound occurred.
Was like the place was deserted
Where were the normal sounds?
Where was the hum?
or the ticking of the grandfather clock at 4am?
Gone.
All gone.
Something was wrong.
'Twas the night before Christmas,
as silent as hell would be
if all the politicians left to attend a festive party.
Was everyone asleep in their beds?
Were the demons shuffling around a graveyard instead?
The cobwebs were all covered in dust,
pipework was starting to rust.
but not a mite of dust moved.
Nothing breathed life,
nothing scurried through this empty tomb.
It was as if no-one had ever walked
in these great grand halls,
never danced during fine old-time balls.
Never moved on the dance floor
to the sounds of an orchestra playing.
Nor wept as love was decaying.
The old walls were cracked and scarred,
years of worn-out old shards
lay flat on the ground.
But none are moving now.
The place is as dead as any building can be.
Should really be condemned,
not even the ghosts could find anything to recommend.
'Twas the night before Christmas
and the man in red suit
should be enroute to make his deliveries.
But not to this old house, all crooked and decrepit.
Above the door frame,
a sign, angled and fading,
marks the house's name,
along with a warning to those who dare to say it.
"Writer's block",
"Inside nothing breaths,
thoughts don't breed.
Once you enter you cannot leave."
Thanks for reading
Check out my books over at Amazon and Waterstones
they make fine stocking fillers.
Peace, Love and Poetry
Kyle.
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