narrative poem

Back in december when the air changes to cold,
there was not a story left untold.
But as the campfire drew weary and ill,
the flames started flickering with little will.

Knowing all the scary stories we just said,
they were still very vivid in my head.
But to get more campfire supplies, i'd need to go in the basement,
trying to think the stories were just lies, i'd need to retrieve some flint.

As I head to the the back of the house and cellar door,
I see bright green ooze going into the underneath floor.
Curiously and cautious i pick up the closest weapon(a stick),
I draw close to the door and open it with question.

When I descend to the underneath labrynth the air is fowl,
I see a towel and pick up and wear it like a cowl.
Walking with quiet strides I see more ooze in the back side,
still armed i walk farther and hear something slide.

Almost to my gaol of getting some flint,
the air turns damp and i turn around to be almost hit.
It's my brother down here plotting this evil scheme,
knowing we'd need flint, he decided to intervene.