Haunt

What ghosts within the walls of home
lurk in the drywall and baseboard dust;
flow through the pipes in spiritual foam,
caressing the flaking rust?
What whispers in the late night squeaks
of floorboards and windows shifting
under some unknown spirits weight
as through this house it goes drifting?
Locks twist, doors open, lights dim to black
the smell of ancient memories and regrets
as these ghosts come haunting back—
and as we feel those cold, dewy sweats
of fear, and apprehension, we view
through the flicker of peripheral sight
a being that can be seen right through—
and thus do we suffer such fright.
For though it may not mean us harm,
drifting on the breeze of its mortal last breath
the ghosts are not that living warm
or the peaceful ones on the holy sabbath;
these are those who ooze from foundations
who creep in the nighttime hour
and though phantoms, they are not the creation
of our minds or spirits sour—
no they drip and they watch, they shuffle, they sigh
breathless and moving as if each day they die—
seeking retribution, seeking a chance—
always watching with a hoar-frost glance
unable to escape the walls of this tomb,
this shadowy place that they once called home.

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