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Old blood
Old woods
So often the two are bound together
Cold Stone
Cold bones
Under one is buried the other
Oaths made
Truth fades
So often lives go unremembered
Old grove
Below

The soil of which is buried a story
For many years this place has stood
Forgotten by the world outside
Upon the hillside in the woods
Where many ancient secrets hide
Melancholy bleeds a fountain
In the gardens and the colonnades
Amid a chorus of lamentations
For purpose instinctive but unknown
A dead host in courtly splendor
To welcome death to this abode
Stench of decay and bitter silence
Seemingly skeletal the portrait grinned.

So will he claim this place as his own
Atop the staircase, faded and grand
In through the old door, broken down
In the corridor where he stands
Purposeless funereal dreams
Banished by a fair judgment
Acquisitions from an open window
As the curtain rises

Grandfather clock chimes the hour
Hidden by a shroud of white
To set the banquet for the fallen
Who may yet breathe out of sight
Cold days of winter's tears
Bleak and bleached drapery
From grim and dusty hallways
The old heir never truly left.

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