The House

There is a house upon a hill.
Solitary does it stand and no bird sings.
No one knows the time and age of its darkened wood,
and the lane in which it stays forlorn has no name.
Aging vines of yesteryear climb with encroaching stealth,
and weeping willows shed tears upon the ashen grass.
The garden of neglect is quiet now and unkind weeds hiss.
The spirit of life in cobwebs is trapped,
and smiles in shadows of a past are seen.
Footsteps slight and voices frail,
are the dust that on the floor form,
a thin layer of antique thought.
The house throbs even though ages have gone by.
It still lives to see the light of joy.
It is alive with a soul and heart,
and carries the heavy burden of memories,
in those splintered dusty arms.
Houses starve and cry and slowly die.
They feel and pray and hurt and fall.
In every grain of damp old wood,
there is a foreboding tale or secret love, entrapped.
The creaking doors in pensive moods lie awake,
and musty words in corners wait,
as unwary wanderer in this forest dim,
raps on the door in uneasy state.
Whispers from all places within do call!
The dust in clouds of welcome move;
Come in dear wanderer on path unknown,
And I shall light a fire for thee,
Years have passed since I have lived,
And weary I have grown for speech.
The wanderer with pale white face,
trembling hands and unsteady gaze,
with wild flight the path does take,
never to return to the lane with no name.
And so the house forlorn retreats yet again,
to the realm of loneliness.
In dying breath it wishfully hopes,
that wanderer true with pure intent,
will sooth its waning hopes to rest.

Ansul Noor
Book- Sacred Hauntings – A Supernatural Book of Poetry

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