The castle sits in the woods.
Memories fill its walls.
Echoes of laughter
vibrate the still air.
Whisps of smoke float
between the trees.
A transparent shadow
settles beside me,
with a tap on my shoulder,
a sigh in my ear.
With a wistful smile, I say,
“Goodbye, my love.
We’ll be together again soon.“
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 Source: slobbering
Who sits and waits in the darkness? There is no movement in the blackness. As still as a fox waiting to pounce, No hint of a ruffle or a flounce.
A soft sigh can be heard in the air. Are those slithering snakes in her hair? Shadows shift through the circling dust As the walls trickle with blood or rust.
The ghostly form stands tall to meet us. She can be the hostess to greet us. A deserted house this seems to be. She hovers over us like a tree.
We stand alone in this bleak hall. There won’t be dancing at this ball. This was a silly lark. Then the candles go dark.
Time to leave this creepy place. We must quicken our snail’s pace. But since this is a horror story, We will not be leaving with glory. |
She stands at the window.
Age dares not to defy her.
Night bring her comfort.
Darkness, her only friend.
Her light flickers and fades.
She waits for you to come home.
Lady of the night.
So sad.
Drifting through time.
Lost.
Waiting.
Watching.
Alone.
Forever.
Henri Martin, Mystic Scene, 1895
In the quiet,
There is a hum.
A whispering sound,
A pitch too high to hear,
A touch too light to feel.
We are never alone.
I’m here.
For you.
One day life changed for me.
And all I had taken for granted
was gone in a second.
How will I go on living?
There is no one here on the bench,
but a ghost of me.
Who sits there in the darkness?
No movement in the blackness.
As still as a fox waiting to pounce.
No hint of a ruffle or a flounce.
A soft sigh can be heard in the air.
Are those slithering snakes in her hair?
Shadows float amid the circling dust.
The walls trickle with blood or maybe rust.
The ghostly form stands tall to meet us.
She can be the hostess to greet us.
A deserted house this seems to be.
She hovers over us like a tree.
We stand alone in this bleak hall.
There won’t be dancing at this ball.
The candles flicker and go out.
I want to pull my hair and shout.
Time to leave this creepy place.
We must quicken our slow pace.
But since this is a horror story,
We will not be leaving with glory.
THE DEAD GAME
Kindle
Nook
Henri Martin, Mystic Scene, 1895
In the quiet,
There is a hum,
A whispering sound.
A pitch too high to hear.
A touch too light to feel.
We are never alone.
SUSANNE LEIST 