The Face

We left the city briskly at dawn,

Embarking on the road paved with stone.

No map was needed for the venture,

Our car was allured by the unknown.

We drove past armies of vibrant trees,

Watched the sun slip to a slumber.

By midnight we reached our destination,

A brick sculpture with no number.

A house so tiny and quaint,

Stared at us with an unsatisfied hunger.

My mother came outside to greet us,

Her face looked twenty years younger.

She beckoned us inside, saying,

“Come see the face on the wall downstairs.”

The door opened with a creek,

I felt fear from my marching hairs.

Taking a weary step inside,

My heart became a pounding drum.

It was quite a curious fact,

None of us knew why we had come.

My mother became our tour guide,

For a visit to the lower level.

The back of my head singed with each step

A premonition of the devil.

When we reached the basement’s step,

The atmosphere became self-aware.

Our nose met an earthy aroma,

Singing carelessly through the air.

Shadows danced across the dirt floor,

Exposed in the dim candlelight.

I looked left to the far wall,

And jumped back in disgusted fright.

A face, with thick, leathery skin,

Protruded out of exposed brick.

With puffy eyes welded shut,

The sight made me want to be sick.

“Isn’t it beautiful,”

My mother whispered to me.

I stared at the face longer,

And had to strongly disagree.