Breesing100

The eyes in the painting followed him down the corridor while he walked past the old wooden  door, His thoughts on the house, really such a bore, The lights shine through as he walked along, But where is he going and where has he gone, The creak of the floorboards echo like an siren’s song, Deeper into the house he walks, Carefully and slowly as if stepping on corks, Nothing but the sound of creaks and a few moreporks, Water rushing down the side of the rickety old house, The man sat quietly as if ready to pounce, Outside the man walked with eyes shut still, Somehow the eyes  of the house are still following with all of it’s