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 racking
As nails on a chalkboard.
So haunted is this place
That once brought joy.
But happiness is lost
To this grim playground.
-
Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: February 3rd, 2017 18:43
- Category: Gothic
- Views: 36
Offline)
Comments2
This is the first I have come upon from you..and its absolutely stunning in its imagery and such...I like how you used the term Haunted to represent the entire body of work... I have a poem with the same title and that is what drew me to read yours and I was pleased to see that it was completely and totally unlike mine nd also, another look at the concept of being Haunted all together..I guess its hard to explain how this moved me to you, as you and I have never conversed but you get the idea,..Brilliant write and now I will look forward to reading more of your work..
Thank you so much. It's a pleasure to meet you!
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