The House On The Poem by Cat Hodgson

The trees they sway and reflect from the broken glass window
The flash from the approaching electrical storm is the only light seen from it's pane.

The torn curtain looks like a human disfigured and old..
Watching for the uninvited guest

The old black iron gate makes for a nervous moan.
As it sways with the wind.
In the distance a wolf cry's as the moon is covered by a dark cloud.
The grandness of the old house is seen from afar

Abandoned Empty from the wane of wealth
Inside the only residents crawl around the rooms
Or sneak from the cracked corners to fly in the night
Seeking out food for yet another generation of their own

Soon the weathered wood will rot and fall
Leaving A mere pile of refuge
Far too gone to reconstruct
Like a depression of worthless sense

The stories of children tales
Ring to it's glory
Of phantoms and ghouls
And other most mystical of creatures

But is it just an old house
It's owner gone on
Left unattended to it's own
Waiting.. Waiting.. Waiting..