We wept while looking upon
the ruin before us, this horrible
misplaced scene, the bleak walls
that danced with demons shadows,
upon the cracked and gray windows
that we peeped through in fear.
Afraid and trembling as Bill staggered
up our street in a fog of disgust, drunk
with the power he knew he had in his
House of Will.
The cold cracked asphalt outside,
had no soul, no heart, nothing for us
to compare to the agony and utter
depression or earthly sensation we
all felt as he drew near to the
Like the hideous stench of his aura
that approached this house, it gave
one a sinking, disgusting, sickening
feeling in one’s heart, an icy feeling
up our spines, seeing child like hairs
on our arms dance with fear.
Our dear mother knew the demands
that would crush her, the minute Bill
walked through his House of Will,
her dreariness of thought wore her down,
she was but a tool, a plaything for him
to abuse, and with no mercy he would
goad her soul, torturing it with delight.
This night like others in the House of Will
would instill fear, hatred and anger as well
revenge into the souls of his victims,
my mother, and my siblings five could not
hide, he would search us out and bring us
to his sacrificial altar of abuse.
This demon, most times had a neurotic
obsession with alcohol and sulphuric undertones,
and wanted to exert his power over the weak
and timid in the House of Will. Nevertheless the
mental disgrace that befell this madman had no
asylum clearly close enough to white jacket and
keep him there for good.
So the pendulum swung in The House of Will,
cutting our souls, tearing at our fragile young minds,
repeating deeds of intricate deviation and scorn.
An intimacy that left its scars so deep with oppression,
that young minds were ushered in with uplifted arms,
as angels sung their welcome through Heaven’s gate.
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.