The Haunting

A burning candle

In screaming woods and empty rooms

or gloomy vaults and sunken tombs.

Where monks and nuns in dust decay

and shadows dance at close of day.

A burning candle

Where the bat dips on the wing

and spectral choirs on breezes sing.

Where swords in ancient battles clash.

And shimmering shades for freedom dash

A burning candle

Where silver webs of spiders weave

and blighted lovers take their leave

Where curses lay the spirits low

and mortal footsteps fear to go.

A burning candle

Where death holds life in grim embrace.

Its lines etched on the sinner's face

Where e'er the march of time is flaunted.

Voices cry "This place is haunted."