Willoughby Hill

A time to walk
Came early that morning
Through the blowing trees
In the morning hour
The path was long
To the house of Porting
The windy trail
To the hill grown sour

Upon the hill
Stood the house, still holding
Against the sky
In the Midnight air
The twilight gone
The blackness took over
Through my soul it glanced
Its coldest stare

To run or not
Which way was the question
To the rotten house
Or the path behind
What demon or treasure
Would await my presence
On the steps or the alcove
What would I find?

The house did pull
As I fought to run
From the blackened stare
Of the broken panes
My footsteps heavy
My muscles weary
I reached the porch
And it’s many stains

Blood or rust
Or weathered time
I wondered
As I glanced below
Discolored prints
About my feet
Was earth? Perhaps!
But who could know

I fought again
Against the Eyes
Of the House of Porting
On Willoughby Hill
My dreamy glance
Now broken
As I ran towards
The familiar trail

The journey back
I can’t recall
Just beads of sweat
in the morning chill
But every morning
beyond that trail
I find myself
At Willoughby Hill

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