First published in Literary Hatchet, Issue 22

The dark house sits brooding, high on the hill;
heedless of time passing, of age and decay,
my love walked its halls—he’s roaming them still.

As spiders spin webs from windows to sills,
as velvet tapestries fade and fray,
the dark house sits brooding, high on the hill.

Wandering from wing to wing as he willed,
the lord of a land that’s wasting away,
my love walked its halls—he’s roaming them still.

No sunlight comes to chase away the chill
that shrouds the rotting splendor night and day.
The dark house sits brooding, high on the hill.

There are some hearts that can never be killed;
there are some spirits you can never lay.
My love walked those halls—he’s roaming them still.

I know neither of them will rest until
the earth takes them both to share the same grave.
The dark house sits brooding, high on the hill;
my love walked its halls—he’s roaming them still.

© 2022 Sarah Cannavo