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Personal Note:

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Poem

I walked through the haunted 
house on the hill, 
through the untended garden first, 
a tangle of foxgloves and weeds,
claws of bracken the hands of the dead. 
Trees, stripped bare branches scratching 
bulging underbelly of the sky 
as if to tear it open 
and fling it's innards onto the earth. 
Truly, there was no path. 
Past stone lion sentinels, 
through the faintly screaming door, 
where inside I discovered nothing but a 
shell, ornate paper and yellow-boned 
plaster peeling and flaking from 
walls and ceilings. 
Ancient cobwebs clung to my hair, 
their creators long since desiccated 
and dust. 
I swept them away like yesteryear's 
dead leaves. 
The musk of dark embalmed memories 
dry-charged my nostrils 'till they flared. 
In the gloom, water dripped steadily 
onto tin - tip! tip! tip! tip! -- a faded, 
thready heartbeat. 
Memories tried to softly sink barbed 
claws into my brain, to make me hear 
and see things better left underground. 
With no little effort I shut them out, 
knowing full well that given chance of 
purchase, of insidious anchorage, 
they may never leave. 
Nor would I, for given time 
all houses acquire ghosts 
and strive to add to their collection, 
amplifying the thudding, 
weeping and dread longing 
that flutters and swans beneath 
their crumbling rooftops. 
I may belong here 
but I cannot stay, 
for all those who walk here must, 
in truth, 
walk alone.

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