Pupa Factorem - Chapter 1: Welcome Home, dear sister

Weary is our dear traveler from afar~

Waking from a train, traveling like a rolling jar~

Finding its antiqueness in our heights beauty~

By our inn that yearns for sisterly~

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Walk

Come on now,

Enter our inn,

Creaking is the oak floor that rot with uncertainty

Dark creases that looks at you wearily

Be careful of the slumbering walls

They speak intelligibly especially the hall

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Turn around and you’ll find the absent reception

Oh please,

Stop looking around!

Stop looking as if you are inspection!

You are just a girl, wondering in

Hearing voices someone singing,

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So you turn back to the long desk

But no one is there for you to ask

Some room are opened

One foolish who entered

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Dark Corners draped with a ghostly curtain

Skeletal laces, what elderly likes around its hem

Mother loves looking at it, especially from the inside

And then, turn far out the window, to a hanged man

Under father’s willow tree, they stand

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Ah, but there is no one home

No, no one is home.

You see no one

But still hear someone

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Looking around curiously and see the sewing machine

Mother loves using it especially when making for war

Her feet would ache and grow stale and sore

Still, when no one uses it, it sits obscene

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A croaking hum when stepped

Four legged taps crept

You look over and see no one

Your reflection seems to be someone

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You stitch, as if you know your fingers

Poking, stabbing and piercing, a bloody picture

Rather than fixing your relief handkerchief,

You end up seeing disbelief

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Your fingers, stabbed with hundreds of holes

All seemingly with eyes and petty

Looking at you full with guilt and empty

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Then you sit away,

Realizing all was fake

Your fingers are fingers

Not a bloody arachnid

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You start reading this as if you are safe

But are you?

Unless I am behind you

Brother or Sister, you are not safe

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You look behind and a portrait

Old lady, frail and forced in a corset

Her eyes wants to puke

Clutching her tummy, look

Five finger riddled with holes

You stumble back, against a bowl

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History tells that the lady in the frame

Is long dead in war’s game

However it is such a shame

That you might going to be living the same

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