Yo, the handle rusted, dreams locked tight,
Beneath my ribs, a flame burns bright,
Each riddle carved, like scars that call,
No one answers, no one at all.

I trace my finger down this cold wood grin,
Paint hides the knots, but I see where it’s been, Who built this place of heavy hours lost? What vanished soul paid the ultimate cost?

A riddle lives in every creaky board,
The wind's spittin’ bars,...