Dread

Old,
Decrepit,
Vile.

It stands there
In the cold winter wood,
Like a monument to
All things considered unholy
And unnatural.
Defiant in it's very nature.

Simple it must have been once.
Just a cabin
Made with plank and logs.
Surely, something happy once
Happened on It's grounds.
No more.

Torment and fear,
Licks of wormwood and
Bodies ash mingle with
A hint of red,
Leaving behind the taste
Of corpse as you near it.

Corrupt pillers of burnt
Trees and all manner of
Occult things litter the grounds.
Keeping any falsities of the
Beings called life away.

The feeling grips your
Stomach like a vice
Clamping down on
Splintered bones as
You
Realize the pure stench
Of rot and notice the
Sense of dread.
The pressure coming down on you,
Like a beast's fangs.

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

Aggressive... dark. It's good work. Reminds me of Pet Cemetery. Or some kind of clown like vampire night bite party.

[The Poet of Black Wings]

Clown... vampire?