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Standing alone atop a hill,
the tired aged mansion
deserted and still.

Ages have passed since occupied,
a gentleman's loss,
long forgotten stride.

The willows were proud,
swayed in the breeze,
present and admired at past garden teas.

A century ago roses bloomed,
were trimmed and pruned,
scented each and every room.

Gables tall and wooden,
now crumble at the touch,
the trim molded.

Room to room,
the past creates an echo.
Whispers of secrets of forbidden love,
years have not mellowed.

Time has yellowed the pages,
of an old family bible.
Victim of the joke a century wages.

Somewhere in the past,
of the tired, aging Mansion,
the murderous secret was let out,
given birth to sad winds.

But here in the dusty maze,
my frightened mind perceives a rattle,
a whisper, a cold touch, fear and angst.

Never really died, secrets never do,
Standing alone atop the hill,
the tired, aged Mansion waits,
to makes it's claim.

Learn more about this author, lori W..
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