I approach a deserted mansion.
An immensely large and bolted front door
viciously screeches when opened hardly ever.
“Are you still there?”

The house is dusty, murky, and squeaky.
aged and rusted
Just like everything in that house.

Cats by the hundreds,
lovingly hostile,
if they’re still alive.

There are icicles on the gutter,
glass leaves beneath the snow,
and trees statue still.

Pitch white view.
Vacant for miles,
Screams silently for a soul.
“Are you still there?”

A train is in an echoing distance,
comes only twice a month,
and only for three minutes.

I don’t go near that house.
I don’t look in that window.
I don’t knock on that door.

Little old lady
Alive, I believe.
Come out, come out
“Are you still there?”