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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required the bannisters were cold, house dark and dreary, I was alone no surprise because I have been in solitude since my death ninety-six years of stark, staid, stillness, hearing no voices I am tired of ghosting this mansion; it is not interesting When I was alive I had friends, they were witty and charming We used to laugh about our silly stories, stay up late and play cards Because I was nineteen and excited about life back in the day I never expected to die, and certainly not alone There were others in the car, and they all three survived I hate to be like this, but jealousy has wormed my empathy into anger When the electricity was on, I could light the corners with my irritation this gloomy doomy dank mausoleum has not been electrified for awhile I hear footsteps; another ridiculous realtor with potential buyers? We have not had one here since 1986; and this is two thousand something Who knows? It’s not like I have a newspaper or radio any more. I hear footsteps on the porch. I feel anticipatory hope. The realtor is not a man; it’s a woman? Does this make sense? Maybe this happens in modern day. I listen to her realtor talk. She is using all the right terms “flexible, eager to sell, snapped up quickly.” Snapped up quickly! I start to snicker. The young bride looks up where I am sitting, eavesdropping. “What was that?” she asks. “What was what?” replies her husband. A person who can hear me? I am delighted from my toes to my torso. “Buy the house!” I yell. She turns and runs out. Followed closely by the others. They never buy; I hate this.
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