Puzzle-Man-Keep

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of the Dust.

Shuddering doors, hallways with velvet brown sashes

Flickering lights, burning candles, the Manor Just.

The mask atop the chandelier; the old butler Edwin Wayne Nashes.

The poet’s resort, this lofted cabinet of novelties

Puzzle-Man-Keep.

Harsh upon the window still; these few curiosities.

Room of a room, in among the many, the insane, the Deep.

Bricks that tell stories, none the more cemented.

Clocks that tell Destiny, across the view; demented.

And this world along the twisted corridor.

Two ravens and a large condor.

These walking shadows, these talking walls.

Through the overgrowth and through these formidable halls.

A candlestick, five feet eleven inches off the ground

The eeriness and the haunting abound.

Old Nashes, with faded red slashes.

Puzzle-Man-Keep

If only these portraits could talk! Long and thin lashes.

The creaking, The Brave, and the survivors leap.

Puzzle-Man-Keep.

White House

For so long the Ocean rise.

The house on stately fields.

Across the forest of lies.

Over the river yields.

Through the stone-encased gate.

A white mansion, with three spires

A calming fate.

The Garden together with the yard; the Guild; inspires.

The statue atop the highest peak.

A bust of marble; a figurine of an archer.

The protection of the house it does indeed seek.

Looking out across the long field. Looking across among the iron marcher.

The arrow he wields is one of trust.

Forgiven through the marrow door.

The foyer gust.

The chandelier, the banister, the corridors. Is one all, of folklore.

The clock in the study; striking along the philosophy.

The books with a fabled tale!

The bricks hum unapologetically.

Along candlelit halls, the history hail.

From Bushner, to Vanish, to George Martin.

And with the living room mantle.

The statues that salute the tapestries and the velvet brown sashes; These times of Spartan.

With the young creaking floor. The doors entangle.

Shuttering chimneys. Together with cobblestoned gables.

With the cabinet along the library; a Writer’s paradise and poet’s resort. Atop the many tables.

The attic rumbles in the cool air. The cellar prays in the lonely dark.

So long through the only demise.

Out in the courtyard the dogs bark.

Across the stream of blatant lies.

A letter of goodwill. Leave we must.

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of Dust.

A close of the door and a walk through the gate; the Manor Just. 

The Tale of Three

Four explorers bonded in quest, searching for the crest, to see whom stands the test.

Together in this Tavern, along Dodd’s Cavern, listening to the organist Jon Mavern.

The Four, aspiring a new, assembling a crew, to sail across this ravaged few.

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of the Dust

A knock on the black iron head.

These Four, far from home and village. The Manor Just.

Wakeful ruins amidst the shattered haul. A pocket full of lead.

Swinging open, these bruises at the door.

Spilled ashes and velvet brown sashes

Ink dripping down the mantle with blood upon his vest.

With extended hand and a look in his eye! Edwin Wayne Nashes.

Down crooked corridors and crippled rooms he led

Stately in manner with a devious smile, “if found, bury the dead.”

Voices scatter, these few matter.

The halls torn, the mirrors batter.

The poet’s resort. The Four;…The Three

Gone underneath the Cherry Tree.

Wind Weepers with fiery capers.

Sobbing candlesticks, the rain tapers.

The Three;…The Two. Door by door, picture by eerie picture.

The mask atop the chandelier.

The dog in front of the cabinet; The haunting fixture.

Books that could talk, clocks that tell Destiny; Bricks that tell stories:

“Hattingway, Archer; Stirring war. Jasper and Jodrick. Warming pine.

The walls still, the carpet too. The dark’s mine.

The Shadow’s Saw, there is nothing we can do.”

The face in the corner. Old Nashes, with faded red slashes.

“Old Nashes, with long and thin lashes!

Murderer of Just! We are warning you!”

The Two;…The Last. Gone are the rest.

Forgotten is their quest for the sacred crest!

The Garden’s Guild, the red-soaked chairs.

Halls with velvet brown sashes and hauntingly lairs.

Echoing laughs, captured in fright!

The night looms, vanishing the light.

“Your friends are gone. There is no dawn.

Hide yourself, hide your weep.”

Every door, ever room.

The clock strikes, Destiny loom.

This ghastly dream.

With noting left and the survivor’s leap.

“Watch out; Puzzle-Man-Keep!”

Thereafter

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of Dust.

Three Investigators at the gate; the Manor Just

Five all but dead.

The crows atop the statue’s head.

A creak of the door, flashlights down the halls.

Books that could talk, clocks that tell Destiny; Bricks that tell stories.

An empty portrait above the mantle; A staircase among still air; no worries.

The mask atop the chandelier and sobbing candlesticks.

Not a shadow disturbed, or heirloom misplaced. Those wailing Bricks:

“Hattingway, Archer; Stirring war. Jasper and Jodrick. Warming pine. Lafleponte over the banister!

The walls still, the carpet too. The dark’s mine. Mourning hall; striking the canister.

The Shadow’s Saw, there is nothing we can do.

Murderer of Just! We are warning you!

Old Nashes, with faded red slashes!

Old Nashes, with long and thin lashes!

Your friends are gone. There is no dawn.

Hide yourself, hide your weep.”

A look through every demented passage and crippled room.

The doors shudder with an eerie boom.

A creek and a groan; flashlights dancing the walls.

Nothing but brick and stone; nothing but willowing calls.

The hand upon the grave.

The few among the rightful brave.

Authorities outside as twilight turns to dusk.

The Garden’s Guild, the dead’s husk.

The survivor’s escape.

The shadow’s shape.

Taken to care, with none the remaining.

Seven all but dead; none the gaining.

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of Dust.

 Leaving this wretchedness; the Manor Just.

The pain of depression.

None even within session.

A recollection and the emptying of lead.

“If found, bury the dead.”

Still no sound. The face in the corner.

With no worthy intention. The silent mourner.

Dreams of the night. With no end in sight.

Skulls illuminated by flashlight.

Ink dripping down the mantle with blood upon his vest.

Alone in the dark, along the corridor west.

The morning of, the window found open wide.

The sky a blueish-gray; and the turn of the tide. 

Investigators and their conclusions

Found dead on the sidewalk; his depression and his illusions.

They said: “He must have taken the leap.”

“Puzzle-Man-Keep”

Epilogue

Three months past October. A total number of ten.

Words none the wiser; hidden within the haunted den.

Old properties, with bronze color legacies; and the history keeper.

Bending spines, to January 1899. Oh! The story is deeper.

Token bust, this field of trust, the Arrow of Robust.

These warming halls, with joys about; the Manor Just.

Books that tell stories, clocks that give wonder.

The Garden Guild and the lack of thunder.

George Martin Just atop the banister; waving with a warm greeting.

His guests all around, enjoying the night’s party. This peaceful meeting.

Together with velvet red sashes.

With elegantly crafted glasses.

And Bricks that could talk:

“Wimmer, Clark; Come on through the door. Clayton and Cedrick. Have you got the time?

The walls joyous, the carpet too. Won’t you dine?

The Light’s Hall, is there anything we can do?

Master of Just! We welcome you!

Old masses, among these velvet red sashes

Gold Dashes, through those celebrated classes!

Your friends are here! No need to fear.

Hide your sorrows and hide your weep.”

Little as known, among the wait staff.

An embarrassed server, his colleagues begin to laugh.

This server, wears a mask. This to cover his apparent red slashes.

This server, with long and thin lashes.

The party goes on, well into the night.

The party goes on, without a need for fright.

An embarrassed server, ridiculed by all.

“Why roam down this prestigious hall?”

George Just, with words of mistreatment:

“Go now, before you cause a disagreement.”

Alone in the dark, along the corridor west.

Contemplating the forbearing winds; antagonizing the rest.

He leaves the room with weapon in hand; echoes of laughter.

Down the hall, toward the foyer hereafter.

This server, with apparent red slashes.

This server, Old Edwin Wayne Nashes!

George Just pushed off the banister.

The crowd gasps. As the body strikes the canister.

The mask is thrown, onto the chandelier.

He laughs and coughs with a jeer.

“I am here for your head.

If found, bury the dead”

Time passes, history becomes legend.

The investigation turns cold; this stalling engine.

Broken bust, this field of rust, the Arrow of Dust.

The shattered gate, the moaning door; the Manor Just.

The face in the corner.

The silent mourner.

The soul reaper and the foregone server.

The scorn, the departed, and the wakeful observer.

Edwin Wayne Nashes

With faded red slashes.

Forever to deep

With the survivor’s leap.

Until the day of begotten plunder.

The town will be torn asunder.

And within Manor Just, he will creep.

Puzzle-Man-Keep.

Photo by Nathan McDine on Unsplash