Perhaps you have heard of that lady,
Her house stood at the end of the road,
No one ever called on her,
Seldom was she ever seen in town.
Her clothes were old and ragged,
Always out of style.
There were many in town
Who called her a witch,
She was feared
By many a child.
Her yard was unkempt,
Her grass grew tall,
Her only flowers were wild.
It was dark at the end of the road
Where she lived,
Seemed almost alive.
There is no stone in the graveyard
Bearing her name,
But she hasn't been seen in years,
But no child to this day
Goes near her house,
Her legend perpetuates fear.
Bruce Mundhenke enjoys nature, reading, and writing poetry. He lives in Illinois with his wife and their dog and cat. He also enjoys a good horror story. Who doesn't?