the bones are not evil,
but they remind you of an
evil time. the house is not
cursed, but it carries a type
of grime that does not seem
mundane, does not seem kind.
no sepia tone, no fond moment
of plain cogent warmth, no love.
instead, an older memory.
sick nostalgia, a bad bed no one
should have to sleep in. storms
come round these parts, you
run out to the rain, or leave
town to try and escape the refrain.
it is not evil, but, all the same...