The Ancient Mansion
Over a hundred yard acre spread
looms a quiet sense of dread
Across the land of mundane moors
The spirit of the house quietly lures.
A daring the sight of grey and gaunt ruin,
Hiding behind the fog, it sits forgotten.
The silent walls reek of abandonment
Of an once old and proud mansion.
The curtains weigh with heavy despair
the empty halls echo lost flare
The desolate cries of the walls are heard
Like the desperate cries of a baby bird
The shiny brass and sparkling silver
covered with dust and left to linger
The windows all barren, not a sight to see
No warm kitchen to a smoking chimney.
The crawling ivy claiming its prey
The peeling wallpaper revealing grey
The thorny rambles uncontrollably grow
covering the rodent's well dug burrow
The mansion , at night weeps a silent bard
to the howling winds and trees on yard
Fall it shall not, to become a ruin in vain
Standing tall and proud it'll forever remain.