The Haunted House

a poem by Dwayne Leon Rankin, USA - poetry writer, author, poet

Upon the hill, the house there stood,
Dark and left forlorn.
With vines that covered there the walls,
All seen full of thorn.

Surrounded by a gated fence,
No other entrance shown.
Dead leaves covered all the ground,
With weeds there overgrown.

Paint all pealed and windows cracked,
With shutters cov'ring all,
No noise from it was ever heard,
Not even birds sweet call.

Three full stories 'gainst the sky,
Cheerless there and cold.
No one lived there was the word,
In stories that were told.

Tall old trees kept all in shadows,
Tangled bushes bare.
All dead and ugly there to see,
They say it once was fair.

Once it was a wondrous place,
Full of love and light,
Until one ev'ning came that call,
To give those round a fright.

A family lived there many years,
A husband and his wife.
With two small children of their own,
Living there a happy life.

But then one dark and dreary eve,
A scream rang out from there.
Terrible was that hideous sound,
Full of deep despair.

No one knew from whence it came,
That frightful mad'ning sound.
When they checked up in that house,
Not a soul was found.

No sign of that family seen,
Who lived there in that house.
Not a living thing was found,
Not even there a mouse,

All quiet there the house now stands,
No lights nor sound there heard.
Only there the rustling winds,
Nothing there occurred.

But for once a year there brought,
The same self night each year.
A lone sad waling sound would ring,
Out there loud and clear.

They used to check it out each time,
But nothing there was found.
The doors still locked with windows shut,
With nothing there around.

That house remains there all alone,
Haunted there they say.
Just sitting in all disrepair,
Empty to this day.

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