Dark bits.

I sat down to write a poem,
about an old lady who was all alone.
But then I heard a creaking door
and thought about a blood stained floor.
Not fresh, but old, forgotten stains
washed out by a thousand rains.
I wondered about sacrifice
and screams that die in dark of night.
And then I thought, 'does death remember
the heat of life in late December?'
So in the end, I never did
sit down to write that poem.
Instead I left that poor old lady

in the dark and all alone.