My Poems

welcome to dead house

The clock strikes twelve,

All are asleep,

Then they come out,

So, silent they creep.

Things come out watching,

With blood red eyes,

No one sees them,

Perhaps they are spies,

Ghosts are waking up,

The bats are too,

Some sound of chains are heard,

Are they scaring you?

But that’s not all,

Some things are flying,

Vampire bats,

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