Just past a withered tree, on which leaves will never grow.

Next to the disused bridge, under which nobody will ever go.

There lies an untrodden path, where children dare not play.

A twisting, winding path, shadows make it dark in the day.

 

Old rotten stones lead up to a house of unnerving fright.

The windows glare like mad eyes, staring out in the night.

Huge gates of twisted iron, they remain unlocked for a dare.

The house is a breathing, living trap, a deadly demonic snare.

 

An ancient carved door of oak, is never under lock and key.

And inside the walls, roam prisoners...dead, but never free.

The ‘For Sale’ sign rots, just like the house to which it belongs.

Brave birds perch up on it, though you’ll never hear any songs.