The Ruin
A crumbling hovel, once an ancient home
existing from a time too long ago
to count, with vines and weeds all overgrown,
the roof collapsing. Rafters sag below
the ceiling plates. The weathered timbers, dark
with smoke and grime of centuries gone by,
now hidden ‘neath the rotting leaves. Gray bark
and twisted branches shutting out the sky.
The windows shattered, chimney stones the same,
the door from which dead snakes were wont to swing
now off one hinge and sagging on its frame.
Concealed beneath the floor, an ancient ring.
Malignant emanations rise, benumb
the soul, where even ghosts dare not to come.