The Haunted Door

A haunting house, I gaze upon within the dark hollows of the hill, Nestled in the snowy rain, Black as night, the doorway stands, Cobwebbed by age. Great stone walls rise up from the sides of the hill, Towering above the door, casting shadows upon the ground, And dead bushes and plants ring the yard, Filling it with musty smell of death, But always the dusty tile path, Leads the wooden door. Little life lies here upon this hill, This roofless house is haunted now, For the stones inside there are names upon great stones set into the mantle, dust covering the walls. Here I sat for days on end, Never moving towards the door, My thoughts upon that ancient door, Thinking of entry, opening that dusty door. My mind made up, I walk towards the house, Through dark night, And blizzard winds, Open that door and walk inside, It slams behind, Now I am alone, Behind that door, In that roofless house, Sleeping with those long gone, Lying in a crevice marked by a granite block. And here I lie for eternity, Here I rest at last, And to heaven I now go, To greet those from the far past.