Footsteps wander a lonely hall,
Shuffling beneath a moon quite full.
Curtains rustle as cold breeze ripples,
Shifting gentle upon dusted ground.
Shadows rise up between closed doors,
And shriek in silence as the flash down.
All the while footsteps wander,
Passing onward in a forgotten round.
Now you hear voices whispered,
Murmur beyond locked key and stone.
Laughing, taunting, hiss with haunting,
Sending chills through the ground.
Outside a lone voice howls,
Calling to someone long lost.
Even so these foot travel on,
Searching for a memory buried.
Long forgotten by the crowd,
Yet hanging where all may know.
Up a creaking stair forgotten,
Through an empty ballroom hall.
As moonlight glitters in the darkness,
The door prints find their stolid home.
Before a simple and naked painting,
Some have dismissed as trash.
A long promenade of green with people laughing,
And lunch being served in a row.
Such bland conjecture within its lines,
The eye cannot behold.
Unless you’d stand where footsteps ended,
And behold the jagged lines of bone.
Look well my friend upon this moonlit omen,
The face death stares plainly back.
-M.E. InkOwl
The Ink Owl 