Ghostly Poetry Haunted Nursery Rhyme III Past rusted, wrought-iron gates and lichen stones— Over blackened dirt and loosely scattered bones; The mausoleum awaits the curious And the morbidly morose and serious. You saw the tomb standing on the hill, Leaving your beating heart rather still. The door thuds open and withered leaves prance— While the denizens of death dart and dance. Enter not should you find yourself afraid; Far within, daylight’s new bed has been made. Only for a moment shall the sun rest inside; Worry not and trust me; for never have I lied. For centuries the voice whispered—and you did heed; Our destiny rests in the secret crypt, indeed! But as daylight falls in the sepulcher, I lock the door and hold in my laughter. Return to Ghostly Poetry Previous Poem

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