THE HOUSE THAT GROWS AT THE END OF THE ROAD

There's an old house that grows
At the end of the road
Passed through generations
Where no one ever goes
The oak trees grow bent
In peculiar fashions
Creeping moss weeps
From the wandering branches

It was difficult to leave
Once I had entered
I fell through the floor
Through past wordly possessions
The house, it had roots
Time had not changed it
Though it kept me inside
I had dreams to escape it

I descended again
Through the breathing floor
In the underground
Time draws to a halt
Seas of lost souls
Move in all directions
The candles they carry
Offer false protection
They wander and weep
Through worlds of concrete
The hungry ghosts drifting
In the fog of deep sleep

I felt the momentum
Its possession of me
Its doorways, enchanting
Its lullaby, sweet
I awoke in the grass
Surrounded by lions
The white burning sun
Lifted my eyelids
I chased them away
I gathered my strength
I walked down the road
In the red, winding clay
Another dream, another body
Another night, another day
Should the house call me back
I fear I might stay.