The Lightning Struck The House On The Hill

The Lightning Struck The House On The Hill

The house stood high above the town,

Its weary walls half crumbling down,

Cold winds moved through the broken gate,

As thunder circled close with hate.

The clouds rolled thick across the sky,

Black rivers drifting low and high,

A restless silence filled the air,

Like something breathing hidden there.

One flash split through the midnight rain,

A silver blade of burning pain,

The lightning struck with violent sound,

And fire awakened all around.

The windows burst in shards of white,

Smoke curled upward through the night,

Old portraits blackened where they hung,

Forgotten songs left forever unsung.

The hill glowed red through sheets of rain,

Ashes danced across the plain,

Villagers watched with fearful eyes,

As sparks consumed the darkened skies.

No voices called from deep inside,

No footsteps ran, no soul survived,

Only echoes wrapped in flame,

Clinging tightly to the name.

By dawn the storm had drifted west,

Leaving ruin there to rest,

The lonely house became the dust,

Swallowed whole by fire and rust.

Still travelers whisper passing near,

Of thunder rolling sharp and clear,

And lightning finding once again,

The haunted house upon the hill.

#Marie381UkWriter