The House on the Hill

The House on the Hill

It stands alone, with crooked grace,

Its windows blind, its porch askew,

The path is cracked with moss and time,

And whispers linger where they grew.

They say no one has lived there since,

The war had taken what it gave,

But light still flickers once a year,

Across the yard, beyond the grave.

I went one night when moon was thin,

My lantern low, my courage thin,

The door was open just enough,

To let the shadows wander in.

Inside the dust lay thick and pale,

Each room a ghost of what had been,

A clock still ticked without a hand,

And time stood watching, lean and thin.

Upstairs a lullaby took form,

A woman’s hum, so faint, so near,

I turned to run, but heard her say,

“You shouldn’t be the one to fear.”

And in the dark I saw her eyes,

Soft as sorrow, calm as rain,

She smiled once and disappeared,

And left me never whole again.