The decrepit house on the hill
stands silently in the cold
light of the bright full moon.
Silvery swirling mist wraps its
cruel fingers round the ancient
abode of the dead where the oak
trees shiver in horror in the icy
autumn wind as the creepy hooting
of the owls penetrate the dark night
giving the faint of heart a terrible
heart rending fright.
Donavon Scott Vinson