She never leaves the house--she stays shut in
among her clocks and oriental rugs;
The light through dusty drapes falls sick and thin,
while shadows flit along the floor like bugs.
Each lonely hour her prized grandfather chimes,
a sound more like mad laughter than like bells;
In Fall the house is damp with mold--sometimes
the wood floor sounds like screaming as it swells.
And still she sits folded in antique chairs,
or else she paces hallways in the night,
nursing the candle flame like her own shade;
And no one comes to see if she's all right,
and dark things curl and skitter on the stairs,
and the moonlight cuts right through her like a blade.
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