The Manor House

As the pregnant moon begins to rise, 
one can hear the mournful cries

And when the spirts start their prowl
rabid  wolves began to howl

From the manor house upon the hill,
you can hear the mournful shrill
from the souls who dwell inside,
who were killed and tossed aside

Some phantoms have been seen,
and as the moon lights up the scene
one can hear the groans and cries,
as if these sounds were demonize

A priest went there to investigate, 
but no one knows his fate

Perhaps he too is now a ghost,
and has become the spirt’s host

Stay away from that place they say,
or you will never see another day
for the ancient manor on that hill,
sits there waiting for another kill
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

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Clark Avatar
April 14, 2021 at 12:53 PM
I love your storytelling in this poem! The imagery is wonderful.
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