The House That Sat

Nestled in the Red Forest

Amongst ominous blood-stained trees,

Sits a house too many have found comfort in.

 

The people tell tales of the house;

Of the horrific comfort it provides.

 

They often speak of the king-sized bed

That still remains in the master bedroom;

The one that has felt too many sleepy heads,

Too dreary to realize the horror they are in.

 

They often speak of the fine-china

Sitting on the wooden table;

Carved with siren beauty.

They speak of the cushioned chairs,

The ones that have felt too many bottoms,

Too comfortable to realize the horror they are in.

 

All those people who felt at home,

Soon saw the true master:

The house sits and waits in an empty and dark forest

 For its next dreary and confused guest

 To enter the tall but welcoming doors.

It waits for its guest to eat from the fine-china,

Sit on the cushioned chairs,

And sleep in the master bedroom.

 

Then, in the middle of the night,

When the guest is at his most comfortable,

 The house takes him in his sleep, from one bed to the next:

This bed amongst thousands of other sleepers

 Too comfortable to wake-up.