HAUNTINGS
By Richard Jones
In Screaming Woods and empty rooms
or gloomy vaults and sunken tombs.
Where monks and nuns in dust decay.
And shadows dance at close of day.
Where the bat dips on the wing
and spectral choirs on breezes sing.
Where swords of ancient battles clash.
And shimmering shades for freedom dash.
Where silver webs of spiders weave
and blighted lovers take their leave.
Where curses lay the spirits low
and mortal footsteps fear to go.
Where death holds life in grim embrace
its lines etched on the sinners face.
Where e'er the march of time is flaunted
voices cry "this place is haunted"
Visit out other sites.
Copyright 2001 Richard Jones.
