By: Brendan Cadman
A beam of royal gold breaks through,
the misty and hazy gates of grey.
Clearing to majestic blue skies,
a house basks in the warming ray.
Perched high above the quiet town,
atop a rolling hill of emerald green.
The looming structure casts a welcoming presence,
of dedicated craftsmanship so impeccably pristine.
Through lusting eyes the natives gaze,
and marvel in the homes' aesthetic glow.
Still for years a vacant slumber took,
place of the final dwelling long ago.
Myth and tale engulf the town with,
power equal to a fire captive in the wind.
None would dare to dance with fate,
or brave what presence might lurk within.
Floorboards creak under a phantom's footstep pace,
as silence fills the void of a dark and empty hall.
Cobwebs line the ceiling attractively impure,
as shadows roam the chambers quietly as pictures on the wall.
Continually as the current of a river flows,
so does the quest for a tenant our house will seek.
Toilsome the foreign inly journey can become,
how lucrative is the lenity of inner peace.
Like star-crossed voyagers lost out at sea,
with no course but to betoken of their plight.
Few are destined to a sempiternal fate,
kindred to a haunted house in the daylight.