The Old Neighbourhood

the sounds of the old rusty porch swing, groaning out

sends a chills down the sidewalk spines, of the old neighbourhood
darken abandon houses, with broken tooth windows grins
are standing guard, holding the night at bay
as bony twisted trees fingers rake the black skies
soon a small wind blows in, racing down the street sending porch swings a swaying 
their creaking and groaning, like ghosts when their moaning
while over head an old barn owl cries
death lingers near, but its now a place without fear
for by now everyone has died
laying down dead beneath the even skies