Lost Place

The wind rarely rises,

unless you count the ghosts,

roaming ruthlessly

when autumn invites the cold.

Pumpkin heads everywhere,

ward off the restless

haunted by their restless dreams

on the moor's vast expanse.

Ivy sneaking up the broken

bricks, leaves and paint chipping,

it's been a long time,

the asylum's abandoned now.

The only whispers are

wisps, phantoms, the wind

hissing and tearing

at the crumbling structure.

And it merges into history as a

quiet contribution;

all the voices and cries fading

as the walls are torn down.