A Haunting Poem of the Basement Ghost
Beneath the trembling floorboards, where shadows softly creep,
In the cold and silent basement, a secret stirs from sleep.
She lingers in the darkness, where dust and sorrow swell,
The ghost woman waits, with stories she'll never ever tell.
Her fingers trace the mortar, worn smooth by years of fright,
She hums a tune forgotten, echoing through the night.
Her hair is tangled silver, her eyes dim pools of woe,
She whispers to the cobwebs, longing for long ago.
The pipes sing old lamentations, the walls remember pain,
She walks the stone foundation, pale as autumn rain.
The moonlight barely finds her, through cracks above the ground,
But in the cellar's silence, her footsteps still resound.
Children never wander where the cold grows sharp and thin,
For tales of her sorrow, they dare not to begin.
Yet when the storm and thunder shake the eaves,
Her presence swells in shadows, her memory never leaves.
Caged in the cellaring gloom, forever she remains,
Bound by lost regrets and echoing lost refrains.
If you listen in the hush, beneath old boards and dust,
Her sighs are the wind's secrets; her haunting is a must.
So beware the basement's calling, where darkness gently sings,
For the cellaring waits, and the ghost women clings.

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