it stands forgotten in the middle of the Wood;
a grand wreck, scarred, blinded and burned by rocks and by bottles; by storm and by time.
its broken mouth gapes, exhaling the scents of subtle decay and abandonment;
it whispers in a mossy tongue, chittering madly to itself in the darkness.
there are bones in the attic, slowly disintegrating into a fine ivory dust;
and nearby, softly sifting through the grainy shadows glides a ghost.
within the bones, within the house, are lost dreams, a fragile story;
the pages of which are stirred by the rain drifting in through the broken windows.
the dying words given a final chance, escape through the cracks; borne like seeds upon a prankish wind to take root in the dreaming writer's mind.