On the hill
In the middle of nowhere
In a town of tumbleweed
In a region of desert
Stands this old house
Deserted for centuries
Never to be lived in
This old house
Is haunted
By spirits of the wind
They whisper
Come hither, come hither
Lure you into this old house
Tempting you to taste your deepest desire
Have your dreams curled around your fingertips
Like thin smoke wrapped around itself in the clouds
This old house
Is haunted
By the memories of the screams of death
The memories that enter the mind of the weary one
Temping him to find out more about the past
And he timidly wanders upon the doorstep of his fate
With the whispering promises and the tempting secrets
Just waiting to be revealed
And he doubts the black sense of death
This old house
Is haunted
By the stench of death
And failure
The weary one senses this
But is too drawn by the whispers
He does not realize what he is doing
How fate can ruin the promises
How death can crush the blackest of desires
Destroying the warm, safe-feeling walls of life
This old house
Does not exsist on Earth
But only in my memories
The memories of the screams
The thought of the whisper of promising hope
Lest I dream of good
It's still there
For this old house has killed my dreams
For it lies, and truth would make it slither into nothing.
