The kettle whistles ,
In the midst,
He heard it’s alarm
Of humming.
Walking in an alley,
At two-thirty five in the morning.
Torn up curtains in the window above,
Is where he heard it coming from.
The alley blackend with the erie sky,
A owl he sees at the corner of his eye.
Cloaked with fear,
Of the setting he was in,
Curiosity kept him from running.
Quietly,
Stepping over the puddles of water around,
He crept towards the door,
Of tarnished metal,
And a door knob,
That barely he could put his hand around.
In the moment his hand freakishly shaking,
He placed his fingers,
Around of what was left of the knob,
And turned it clockwise,
But to his surprise did not move at all.
Turning in the opposite direction,
The knob moved,
Without a sound.
Insight,
A hall only lit by one candlestick,
And a cold breezy flow,
Flushed his skin.
The intense of the whistling,
Grew nearer,
And rang rapidly in his ear.
His body grew weak,
And fell to his knees,
Effortlessly he crawled,
Failing to dodge,
The pain of the sound.
Inches away,
He found himself at the entry way.
A door ajar, an empty kitchen ,
And the owl he seen in his vision.
Eyes in width,
The wings of the bird warningly
Broadened.
With his claws turned up the heat,
To the pot.
Too loud to hear,
The man leaped in air,
Missing the owl, as it flew proudly in the air.
Struggling to reach it,
He forcefully turned the switch to off.
The sound came to a hault,
And the owl left at the abrupt silence it brought.
Without no time to rest himself,
A woman hooded in red came out.
And just looked at him and said,
“The ear easily hears, but the heart never sees it being warned”


 
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