On the dusty, mildewed floor
Crouches an ancient wooden door
The eyes of greying pine squint,
In them lies quite the suspicious glint.
The crooked table is quite a sight.
It leans, but neither left nor right.
Groaning wearily under the weight
Of a large block with forgotten fate.
What is this curious cuboid object,
With once bright top now grey-flecked?
Golden markings long obscured,
A fuzzy blanket has the lines blurred.
A wind blows through, a hesitant whisper,
Making the words just a little crisper
Yet there remains a shroud of mystery,
The meaning of the runes lost in history.
There in the corner towers a wardrobe,
It’s heavy doors shrouded by cobweb robe.
Quiet! Was that a creak from inside?
Or perhaps this place is playing my mind.
I’m sure that vase wasn’t there before,
Beside the teddy with soft cotton gore—
Is that a knife inside it, glinting bright?
Surely not, it’s a trick of the light.
I best leave here, it might be too much
The stress feels like I’m in a giant’s clutch.
Any more of this troubling uncertainty
And I fear I may fall to insanity.