The the skeleton swings
From the gnarled tree
Black against the moonlight
Swinging from it's twisted gallows
Creaking as the chill winds blow
Groaning as in living pain
Suffering years of endless woe
Or perhaps its restless spirit
Groaning
Moaning
Pining
Sobbing
Remorse for foul deeds
Committed long ago
What's left of a withered face
Devoured by the savage years
Who's the ghost that hangs alone?
Husband to a weeping widow?
No one remembers-no one knows
Forgotten by all
But those who hear the endless groaning
Creaking as the chill winds blow
Whining
Weeping
Wailing
Shrieking
Black against the moonlight
The skeleton swings
MERRY CHRISTMAS! (hehe)
This poem was inspired by my punching bag. The punching bag hangs in my dark basement. If you punch it hard enough it will swing back and forth, creaking eerily for a loooong time. So it's possible to punch the thing, and then come back an hour or two later and see the thing still swinging. It's very disturbing sometimes, so I wrote this poem.
