Darkness Comes

In the heart of the dark woods, 
where shadows dark and shadows dwell,
Stands an old house, with secrets inside. 
Its walls whisper of tales of days long gone,
Of laughter and sorrow at the break of dawn.

Amidst twisted branches and leaves that creep, 
Lies a dwelling, haunted, silent, and deep. 
Wooden floors moan with the weight of age, 
A testament to centuries long lost to age.
Windows are eyes, cracked and forlorn, 
Gazing out at a world that’s weathered and worn. 

Curtains like cobwebs, flutter in the breeze, 
Guarding the stories in whispers and unease. 
The fortress of moss and decay, 
Sheltering the shadows that never stray. 
Inside, the air is thick with memories faint, 
Echoes of footsteps, voices of a ghostly taint. 

It was lively with life’s vibrant tune, 
Now bathed in the woe of the pale moon light. 
Secrets lie hidden beneath floorboards creak, 
In the silent corners where darkness speaks.
The fireplace, cold and vacant, keeps watch, 
Over the silent halls and roots that watch. 

A place where spirits may dance in the night,
In the old house’s soul, shrouded in twilight.
Vines crawl through cracks and fracture the door, 
A testament to time, forevermore.

Yet, in its gloom, there’s a haunting grace, 
A whispering comfort in its sorrowed face.
For the old house in the dark woods shall stand, 
A guardian of mysteries, vast and grand. 
A relic of stories that time cannot erase, 
Bound in the shadows of nature’s embrace.

by Paul Branthwaite