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The House On The Hill 

Bleak, the naked 
     windswept lanes, 
Lashing skin, 
    unforgiving rains 

Drenching tatty, 
     flapping drapes
In a flurry 
     of flightless capes. 

And aged eyes 
     of darts and stares 
Catch new lovers 
     unawares, 

Flitting from sky 
     to window frame, 
Dashing with 
     their hearts aflame. 

Inside, outside 
     and under eaves, 
Upturned collars 
     and soaken sleeves, 

Seeking shelter 
     from heaven's spill, 
Beckoned by 
     the house on the hill. 

Warmly wafts 
     to welcome them
With lamplit porch 
     and lacey hem,

Wry smiles 
     and buttered toast, 
Courtesy of 
     the resident ghost. 

Old lady, with your 
     heart that bleeds, 
Dweller in your 
     loveless needs, 

Lonely in your 
     shadowy niche, 
What trickery will your 
     soul unleash? 

Jealous shadows, 
     creaking floors 
Opening windows 
     and slamming doors, 

Trapped young hearts 
     lay at your feet, 
To beat no more 
     their wreckless beat. 

Seething, writhing, 
     crimson drips, 
Sweetly tasted 
     on bitter lips, 

Beside their lifeless 
     essence rise 
With mouths aghast 
     and fading eyes.

The clock ticks, 
     the hours pass, 
Silence befalls, 
     in dreams, at last, 

No murderous widow, 
     their lives, could take 
Nor break their hearts 
     before they wake.

Stretching limbs 
     and sunkissed yawn
A sigh of relief, 
     a welcomed dawn,

To wander life 
     as wise old fools, 
To knock death's door 
     before death calls. 

Frail, in cumbersome, 
     aging skin, 
Where no more passion 
     beats within 

A little old couple, 
     with time to kill 
Make their home 
     in the house on the hill. 

© RJVHorton2015

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