Kristina Wyatt's Writing Portfolio


The Deaths of Mr. Jones

Trees lined like soldiers
marching to battle.
Against a harvest moon
a house stand in silhouette.
Empty and broke, windows beckon
like shattered specters.

Always waiting, he stands alone
in shadows, in gloom.
Watching as the world twirls by
year after year.
When decades fade and pass
the house still embraces.

A groan in the night
punctuates the dark realm,
Unearthly shrieks reverberate
in the house's hollowness.
Forsaken he ignores the groan
and stares out the window.

Another that passes by,
unseeing, uncaring,
Only one can release he that
is contained inside.

Pleading, he that is the prisoner,
reaches out for the One,
Certain that his sentence is fulfilled.
And another takes his place,
another to stay in the house,
Until the time comes for him,
to escape the death that waits.