Gaping open lie a mouth
waiting to devour
all who trespass there,
the stolid castle yawns its cursed
and mesmerizing embrace.
The eyes of the window peer down
like the hollows of a skull
and behind them
phantoms parade their glittering taunts
and march to the tune of death.
The Spirits of the Dead entice the weary
to stay for brandy or a cup of tea,
They hear the silent communication,
then to walk away, if they can,
as if nothing happened
as if they never heard the bitter
song of their destiny.