Tristan Robert Lange

Haunted

Frost covers the ground,
And the thickened mud
Mixed with wood chips
Becomes like pavement.

Rusted cylindrical metal
Juts out, like stalagmites,
Of the icy, frozen earth
Meeting together above.

The chains rattle loudly
In the phantasmic wind
As the brittle branches
Of old, dead trees creek.

Haunting voices cry out
In a ghostly shrill pitch;
The sounds of children
From an era long gone.

Snow begins to manifest
As apparitions in the air,
Flurrying down slowly
Upon the frigid ground.

The darkened, gray sky
Overcasts a thick gloom
And sets an atmosphere
Of bleak, ominous death.

The chains scrape along
The jutted rusted metal.
The sound nerve-wracking
As nails on a chalkboard.

So haunted is this place
That once brought joy.
But happiness is lost
To this grim playground.