Lizzie Borden House, Massachusetts — Axe Me No Questions
by Dawg
In Fall River, the fog curls thick as accusation on the street,
history’s breath rising cold off clapboards beneath your feet.
Victorian facade wears its story like an unwashed stain,
a house where memory’s barbed wire wraps around every windowpane.
The night is sharper here, bracing as unfinished prayers,
unanswered questions drifting down the wallpapered stairs.
In the kitchen, time stalls, a sticky whisper of dread,
as if every shadow’s been counting the heartbeats of the dead.
Axe blades hang invisible above each nervous head,
echoes of guilt sharpen the floorboards, footsteps heavy with what’s unsaid.
Sin breeds in the plaster–secrets multiply in the dust,
blood lore immortalized in every visitor’s whispered disgust.
Lizzie’s ghost doesn’t float; she patrols, restless, defined,
her legacy cleaves through the rumors no verdict could ever unwind.
You lie awake, breath shallow, in a bed dressed for the dead,
the weight of myth in your chest, suspicion rattling your head.
A rustle in the hallway, a murmur against the wall,
the past replays its violence–so close, you almost recall
the cadence of the axe, the soft gasp before the blow,
how blood might paint the wainscot, how innocence learned to go.
Beneath the old gaslights, stories rise, venomous and cold,
Lizzie’s gaze is unblinking–her motives forever controlled.
Pain sharpens the silence, every echo tightly wound,
this is no gentle haunting; it’s accusation’s battleground.
History’s breath hangs heavy, trembling on every stair,
Borden’s legend gnaws at reason, splintering the air.
No comfort in daylight, no release when dawn is near–
the Lizzie Borden house survives on a diet of fear.
Every whisper’s a witness, every echo a clue,
every room is a courtroom, and tonight, it’s judging you.
Axe me no questions, and I’ll offer no lies,
but in this house of verdicts, the innocent never survive.