The Moon Don’t Care
This old house—
a rattle of bones—
settles in
for the night—
the lights
of its eyes
dimmed.
Graying roof tiles
kiss, tentatively,
twilight’s gloved hand
in silent communion.
Her pale eye
peeks
past kaleidoscopes
of scattered sun
and browns
of rustling leaves,
indifferent
to the subtle advances
of worn rooftops
and old men.
***
(Originally published at The Milk House)
Horror Sleaze Trash 