Hecatomb

How does each house become this lost— Their frames worth less than what they cost? Food for flames midnight fans— Where fire hasn’t been feared for years— Where lightning strike breaks luck’s streak— Rises to a risk no gambler would take If they’d understood the prize they’d lose Would be what burns down to foundation stone— To complete unknown— to monotone— To a world bled dry of human cries— Where nothing that can be owned Will restore dislocated ruin to sacrificial home Now anchored in a demon haunted inlet Where tormented waters enter To quench burning bones—

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