In the middle of a dark and morbid groove,
Stood tall a house that would not move.
Built with pride from days long past,
Now left to rot, decaying fast.

Once a throne of joy and cheer,
Now filled with dust and webs and fear.
Its ancient soul begins to fade,
In silence where no light has stayed.

The closer you look, the more you’ll find
That gold once painted now’s resigned.
Like autumn leaves that die and fall,
The house decays beneath it all.

Before the snow, it turns to dust—
A monument of broken trust.
Its walls once warm, now cold and bare,
It shivers in the stagnant air.

There stands a door, but no key’s near,
No handle there to turn or steer.
It seems to speak with ghostly breath—
A warning carved in silent death.

The windows shut like coffin lids,
No light escapes, no life forbids.
You try to peer through glass so black,
But only see the void stare back.

Old letters lie upon the porch,
Stamped and sealed but lost their torch.
To a man once known who lived inside,
Though none have written since he died.

Yet still the chimney coughs up smoke,
A sign that breaks the silence choke.
You’d swear no soul could still reside,
But something stirs and will not hide.

Around the house, the garden weeps,
Where flowers died and silence creeps.
The grass has turned a sickly shade,
As though all hope had long decayed.

You stop and ask with frozen breath—
What turned this home to haunting death?
What creature stays where no one roams,
Still breathing in a house of bones?

- Niko