The Loft of Uncertainty

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.


2 thoughts on “The Loft of Uncertainty

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