it's raining, it's pouring

Morbid Ruminations
it's raining, it's pouring
the old man is upstairs snoring
while i have hot tea
and contemplate death

my constant contemplation. death consumes me, a grey spectre that enfolds me in its lifeless sleeves and breathes a raspy, life-absorbing sigh that draws my life from me.

since i moved to this house it has been so. i felt a malevolent presence here before moving in, a hostile spirit of someone passed. if you were blind but felt with your hands a form in front of you, could you deny its existence because you couldn't behold it with your eyes? so it has been for me.

and death has caught hold of my garment and dragged a trail of grisly loss behind it. death advances, a rush of the dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Edgar Allan Poe