I am a house on a hill made of only brick and wood and stone.
I was carved out by a man’s hands, but now I stand alone.
My heart is cold and barren, no fire has burned for years.
I am separate and dark, the kind that haunts a child’s fears.
Do not try to wake me, I need unending rest.
Do not try to rouse me, trust me, living death is best.
Think of others in your quest, for I have grown too old.
Pick up your things, leave me be, I am too cold to hold.
– Olivia Jahnke