Woman in White

The moon, a pale eye, watched the lake below, Where White Rock shimmered, cold and slow. A shroud of mist clung to the water's face, And whispers rose, a chilling, spectral grace. They say a woman, dressed in purest white, Walks these shores, a haunting, mournful sight. Her screams echo through the silent night, A chilling cry, lost in the pale moonlight. The wind, a phantom hand, sweeps through the trees, Rustling leaves, like ghostly, whispered pleas. A chilling moan, a sudden, sharp despair, A woman's grief, heavy in the air. They say she fell, a lover's cruel design, Her blood spilled red, on waters now malign. She sought her peace, but found a watery grave, Now doomed to wander, a restless, ghostly slave. So, keep your distance, when the moon is high, And shadows dance across the glassy sky. For if you hear a whisper, soft and low, It's just a ghost, a tale of ages ago. The woman in white, forever tied to shore, Her mournful cries, forevermore. A chilling reminder, etched in the night, Of a love lost, and a soul lost in the white.