Dead Man's Hill

The wind carries voices, and it moans still, As it rushes over, dead man's hill. Bending dead branches, all along the way, As they crack, and snap, and break away. Through the broken windows, of the house on the hill. Up through the chimney with a whistle shrill. Slamming the shutters as it passes by, Sending dead leaves flying, to the evening sky. There is no sigh of life, in that house on the hill, Only misty apparitions, that bring a chill. Long dead somethings, that groan and cry, Somethings, that in the Earth won't lie. If you look carefully, through the broken glass, You'll see ghostly faces, as they slowly pass. And shiny red eyes, from out the gloom, Will stare back out of the darkened rooms. Upon dead man's hill the wind blows still, And carries ancient voices, that have no will. The floor boards creak, and the wind is chill, In the old dark house, on dead man's hill.