Sixth one in the set. As you can probably feel from the sudden change in theme, we’re almost reaching the end of this weirdly… pleasurable small part of my life.
Hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.
In my crooked house of fear,
In the dark bowels of the forest,
Near the frozen lake of tears,
I lay at night, but never rest.
In my crooked house of dark,
All debauchery and sin,
All my deepest darkest arts,
I practice tirelessly within.
In my crooked house of anger,
There’s no room for stars and dreams.
The night’s cold mist gets ever damper
With spit and blood and chilling screams.
In my crooked house of doubt,
Where I hoard shadows and shades,
I sometimes feel I’m left without
All the lights, colours and shapes.
‘Tis a small and crooked place
And I’m sure you’d feel just fine,
Seeing as I hide my face
For the hundred thousandth time;
In this crooked house of mine.