mill house

there is a constancy in the smoldering
behind the walls of this house
in the air between rooms
a fire breathes
the dregs of its essence linger in the hallway
sooty finger-trails dot the lifted wallpaper
he fears the heart of it
hidden deep in some decrepit crease
forged by hands dead almost as long
the heat comes up through the stone foundation
and it kills him not to know

his sleep restless with catching embers
his thoughts fear-feverish when out
wondering what will be taken as sacrament
cigarette-burn footprints left on the carpet
and it kills him not to know

and the longer it goes on
the truer it becomes
and the basement door
is all he can hold anymore
and it kills him not to know

the bulb’s been out down there
longer than he’s lived here
but the batteries are fresh
in the lumen-touting torch
and he has to know
so he goes

he descends
and roots around the cellar
tracing rock-burnt aromas
and the ever-increasing swelter
lead him to pull the debris away
from the far end of the subfloor
sure as shit
a door bolted
a hole to unknown
vindication
and he has to know

he heaves the heavy metal hatch back
shines the beam into the light-sucking black
seeking the infernal source
he has to know

and it fucking kills him

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
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