The old man speaks of phantoms. He lay on his death-bed, and his face is ashen and sickly.
“Our home,” he says, “it’s haunted. Haunted by my sins. Haunted by my father’s sins, and his father’s sins.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
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the only freedom I want
is to break my ego’s chains
which confine me in cold cemeteries
to the dead,
who rise each night & breathe fire
only I can see,
who speak in a language
only I can understand,
telling me with certitude
I’ll join them soon
& also haunt the living
(Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash)
There’s been trauma in this house
we thought it’d be our forever home
instead, ghosts lurk here
ghosts of murders, suicides
they followed us long after we
left cob-webbed hallways –
the trauma here makes us see things
hallucinations, delusions of despair
we can’t escape it.
(Photo by Stefan Ringler on Unsplash)
