Clara Hood

That old building with shattered windows
and doors of splintered wood,
vacant rooms with ghostly sounds
and the foot prints of Clara Hood.

With her weathered skin
and piercing eyes,
her form had begin to
materialize.

Her haunting voice and
slender frame,
her knife like finger nails
and her hickory walking cane.

Like yesterday, I can remember
the floor stained with blood,
the ax resting on the old wooden stove,
dismembered on the floor was Mr. Hood.

Poetic Verses By Gamaliel H. Gooding
Copyrighted 2003