There’s a House across the way

There’s a Blackened Old Pile that sits away from my Home,

That’s stranger than strange If I may be ever so bold,

For the reason is down to the Horror within,

And the occurrence of such now this tale to behold.

It’s a desolation of a home where no Soul does reside,

No flicker of life can be see Day or Night,

No matter how long your vigil is kept,

The Grave is more silent, and lively a sight.

But once in a while when the Moons at the full,

Some voices of Violence ring-out,

A thud to the floor, a slam of the door,

And a terrible Cry with a Bloodcurdling shout.

Then from Room to Room glides a Infant of light,

A candle in search of a Corpse you would say,

How the creaking of stairs tell the weight that is Death,

To be buried at once in the cold morning clay.

Then all is calm and still as can be,

But the Wind with Its lonely refrain,

And the smothering trees that look down on the scene,

A mute witness to the Culprit and Slain.

And I find later on in the cool light of day,

As I peer through the grime on the Pane,

Its just an old house that’s going to seed,

No trace of disturbance remain.

Now; I dread the ‘Wan Moon’ when the Month travels on,

As It’s there when the Nightmare begins,

Those voices of Violence and Hatred call out,

The cycle of Death, with Its Portrait of Sin.

It’s then once more, as I glance at the door,

To the face of that Blackened Old Pile,

I wonder what devils could roam the damp Halls,

What madness their works still defile. 

But strike me all cold as I look to the House,

From my window when Midnight does chime,

It’s a face looking back through the Yellowing drapes,

The lost victim I’m sure of the crime.

It seems resigned to its continuing fate,

By Eyes cast in death, and a face of decay,

With hands clasped in prayer for his Soul then I plead,

And  thank God for the Dawn, and the breaking of day.