It was a cold winter night,
There was frost in the air.
The trees couldn’t be
Anymore bare.

The wolves howl
At the bright full moon.
The black cats roam
Through the empty streets.

All houses are dark.
All but one.
It stays lit
As we take a peek

Inside the house,
A weary old man.
He, with skin like leather
And hands as cold
As ice.

The man sits in front of a blazing fire,
Reading the paper
Long expired,
It crunching under his stone hard grip.

He sees the part
Where a woman died,
Her two children too
Along beside her.

They sit in a tub,
The one upstairs.
Decaying and molded
But not even there.

He sits and he looks
At the crime he had made.
‘Cause the newspaper never lies.
He will never die.
He is as old as time,
As young as dirt.
As deaf as a rock,
As blind as a bat.
Because of his acts of crime
He is still
Locked up inside.
He cannot run
He cannot hide.
Fighting against
His own demons.
As the ghost of the past
Haunts him,
Stalking him.
He can’t let go.

Or at least he doesn’t want to.
The ghostly old man
Puts out the fire
And disappears
As the sun comes up,
He will never die.
And he doesn’t want to.