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The House on the Hill
By Thomas Miller
There stands a house on a lonesome hill,
Where time stands still, and hearts grow chill.
Its windows are dark, its doors long sealed,
A tomb of secrets, never revealed.
Within those walls, whispers reside,
Echoes of those who lived and died.
They speak of love that turned to pain,
Of lives cut short in the pouring rain.
The air is thick with sorrow’s weight,
As if the house itself bears fate.
Each creak of wood, each sigh of stone,
Tells of a place where no one’s alone.
For in the night, when the moon is high,
You can hear the wails, the softest cry.
The house on the hill, where memories cling,
A mournful dirge, forever to sing.