- Crypt of the Child -
Whilst walking through the streets of a small town,
Exploring the places that I once had called home...
I came to a cold, dark avenue with no one around,
And the night wind chilled my flesh unto the bone.
The street on one side ran along the railroad tracks,
On the other it ran past lands of green, wet marsh.
Another road lay before it, old and filled of cracks,
But I shall speak of the corner, a place very harsh.
In darkness wrapped, and old mysteries shrouded,
A house on a hill was built there in days now past.
Far from the city lights and the places oft crowded,
The silence of that place, could even eternally last.
If I could tell of that silence, it would freeze the will,
And cause the mind itself to abandon to such chill!
I passed near the hill and the terrible house above,
Walking along the old foundations, with curiosity...
Though no living spirit now did live, nor know love,
In the halls of that house, there was a quiet dignity.
Outside, where I walked into the yards overgrown,
Past rusted swings where once children did play...
A little girl with jet hair, wearing a frilly white gown,
Regarded me, with eyes that glowed bright as day.
I asked her to tell me her name; but she was silent,
Putting her hands in mine, she led me on lost paths.
Her hands were as ice, and strange was her intent,
Far too somber was she, as one who never laughs!
She should be playing with dolls, and a dollhouse,
One to match the majesty her spirit might espouse.
We passed brambles and willows so old and bent,
That the paths seemed: dark tunnels of dying trees.
Down was our road, and wherein the hillside went,
An opening I noted, haunted by a moaning breeze.
Iron, was the gate that barred the way to darkness,
With a lock rusted closed, for so very many years...
Undone, by the touch of that girl in the white dress,
So that we could enter; and therein she wept tears.
I saw a marble sarcophagus, which bore no names,
Nor dates of mortal birth or final death, thereupon.
The child opened the lid, her eyes but dying flames,
As she lay down there to sleep: her playtime done.
She was like a doll being put into her box wordless.
The house had been a dollhouse, cursed or blest!
I then was standing, right before that metallic gate,
Which was as locked as it had been, since raised...
I looked up at the stars, and saw the hour was late,
As I walked the paths back, feeling oddly amazed.
It was lonely by myself, and I missed the girl ghost,
For dark was the way, and long without company.
Yet, as I neared the house’s front porch, and post,
I saw the little girl playing with a ball, most merrily.
Leaving her to her solitude, I looked up at the sky,
My eyes on the moon: as pale as the ghost’s flesh.
Pondering the tragic brevity of life, I let myself cry,
For a little girl I knew not, when her life was fresh!
Mayhap she haunts her house still, without end…
Coming out to play and also the living to befriend.