The House on the Hill
There is place far away
in the distant trenches of my mind
I can see it when I want to
but to others it rests blind
Way up north it stands
a small aging house on the hill
The kitchen smells of pine
flowers line the windowsill
Outside reeks of imminent snow
fires always lit and makes the house glow
Every so often in the echoing chasm of night
we pull the covers up
and the horror hinders our sight
The fiery storm passed
the white had amassed
Death took the clouds away
with a bite of the blues
I was left with no more clues
but to ask someone for cues
As always silence it lingered amongst the pews