On a trail just north of the seas
Past the whispering willow trees
There lies a house that stands alone
A forgotten shell of what once was home
It is a sorry sight for wondering eyes
But it tells the story of how she died.
The roof is chard, from the bottom up
And broken glass just sit in lumps
A rotting doll lies beaneath the ash
Playing a melody of the past
There was a little girl who used to appear
But now shes grinning from ear to ear.
They broke in one night and chopped and sliced
Hid her body under the river's ice.
She still lies there cold and alone.
Praying that someone will find her, and bring her home.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories And Thoughts
Short StoryA collection of my short stories. Some funny, some not so much. Nost of them will be more mysterious and leave u guessing. Idk I get bored.
