The Phantom in the White House

The Phantom in the White House

Beneath the chandeliers’ timeless glow,

Where whispered secrets ebb and flow,

A shadow moves through marble halls,

Unseen, yet present, beyond the walls.

By moonlight’s gleam, the gardens sigh,

As winds recall a bygone cry.

A creaking step, a ghostly trace,

Lingering in this hallowed space.

But when the night grows cold and still,

A dreadful chill begins to fill.

A mournful moan, a creaking door,

The phantom stirs from ages’ lore.

Its steps are heavy, its breath like frost,

A soul untethered, forever lost.

In rooms once bright, now cloaked in dread,

It roams among the living and dead.

A whisper soft, a sudden groan,

The crackling hum of the unknown.

It watches those who dare to stay,

Its hollow eyes a cold decay.

Through each new age, the phantom stays,

Witnessing power’s transient days.

Its spectral hand haunts the power’s throne,

A chilling sign you’re never alone.