They visit me here though they think me dead,
They all think me a long time gone.
The mausoleum is quiet, with only one shadow
Creeping upon its ancient walls, and thats of my own.
The heavy door seems to creek of sudden I think,
Outside I hear the sounds of heavy footsteps;
I open the secret door which leads to my rest;
And with heavy heart consumed by this fire,I prepare for the kill.
But then, outside, there is no one, no one is there,
No one was stealing on me this time in here,
Outside I catch furtive and dark shadows only,
As I hear the lonesome cry of a hurting bird.
I dart quickly another look again to my cold coffin,
My fateful resting place is one more safe,
No friend nor foe,to release me, to free me tonight,
From all of my black and torturous own thoughts.
I, Barnabas Collins, I stand here in all this darkness alone,
As I close my weary eyes for another moment rolling in time,
Then again I hear the wind moaning, I hear the wind weeping,
The dogs are howling and my wounded heart abates in the wind,
They're my only companions in my endless and perpectual sorrow.
Dorian Petersen Potter