The Haunted Victorian

It’s one of those days you start the poem five times.
The words form upon the page, what you want to say,
And you don’t have the heart, or can’t find the rhymes,
You just want to sleep and write again on a new day.

A day when the haunted night crept into your life
And roses lie alive beneath the dead of it.
Living whole within the walls immortal strife,
But buried in the war mongering devils pit.