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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.