The haunted yard.

Shrouded in the mists of legends
in shades of grey
a cluster of monoliths look on,
the raven’s squawk echoes
over the church bell chimes
while haunted travellers with empty minds
feel the cold through eye sockets empty.

Mother chills the night so foggy,
as naked footprints tremor
at the crunching of frosted grass,
while across the way
on satanic hill lies
a solitary grave,
unmarked.

And the sentiments
of your passing, alone,
you stand in stone,
all the while
grey skulls chatter
at the lichen growing.

While across the way
the names of grey monoliths
look upon your dynasty
truly buried.