Still Alone

A house stands sadly ’pon a shady hill

and not a living soul walks through its halls.

The dust, like darkness, lying thick and still

bears witness, as the paint peels from its walls.

The seasons rolling by have left their mark;

all but a single shutter, in the grass,

and jellied mushrooms flourish in the dark

of cellars damp, with windows missing glass.

A sagging porch leads to a missing door;

a twisted staircase climbs as if in pain.

Within a closet on the second floor,

a dried out corpse, on rotted rope remains.

For sins that now can never be atoned,

its silent ghostly tears fall, still alone.

*** I have always thought that haunted houses were more sad than frightening, and if you think about the poor house as it slowly falls apart, it can even become a sympathetic character. The English (or Shakespearean) sonnet is a wonderful vehicle for telling stories, and while this isn't anywhere near the Bard's level of writing, it was quite a fun little poem to craft.