Ghosts in this house make no sound
They are only around to watch
Flashing images of my mind
And extract memories from times
I dwell in forsaken chambers
They belabor the process of death
Let’s get it over with, we say,
Let’s kill these emotions during
The bright light of the day –
Instead of waiting for fire-soaked
Nights under harvest moons
And pastures of bitter gloom
The ghost in our house
Tortured spirit roams here
In a long white dress
Yearning to be free and out
Of her purgatory life
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)
