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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My mind is like a haunted house, and you are the restless spirit; the poltergeist inside of it. But in fact, it’s not really you: it's just the remain of a once-called-precious vestige of my love for you. On everywhere you left your marks: your footsteps on squeaky floors and ancient, curving stairways of my brain’s convolution. Pushing away the movables of my memory, capsizing my once-cozy chairs, just keep knocking on every doors and walls of mine, while precipitating my windows’ shutters you never let me find my sleep again in this terrible noise. Like a maddened, vertiginous wind-tornado you're sweeping over my rooms. I can’t cope with cleaning up after you. Seems like a Sisyphean task: I don’t think I’ll ever be able to finish it. The whole place is such a mess; a chaotic merry-go-round of lurking shadows, soul-snatching darkness and gloom: a diorama of nightmares. There’s no use to call a priest; no exorcism can cure and purify these impious halls. The four corners of these chambers would be sanctified just in vain, because you ate yourself within this place: the worm-eaten furnitures, the dingy carpet, the musty smell of blighted walls, the moth-eaten, brocade and velvet curtains of emotions, the lost shelter of our baldachin bed. You just wander and haunt there inside of me, the limbo-threshold of my mind. You’ve become the captive, yet keeper and leader of my own hell. Like a mischievous rodent, your memory chews everything. Like a worm, you perish the wood: the wooden beam which structured my spine. My locket and keys become rusty, the air turns to stale and musty. All around just ripped canvases with repellent paint, damaged-broken, cracked torso-sculptures: I’ll be soon devoured by decay. And no light will be able to shed inside me. I’ll become overshadowed; abysmal-dark and abandoned like an old, ramshackle house which is about to collapse. Our love is also just an echo, a screaming one of the glorious past which is heard throughout the windy-dark corridors. Once it was a song, I ought to remember its melody, but, by now only word-fragments and sound-snatches are being able to recall. No one can leave this place, even I am incapable of doing it. You do not let me. And so do I. Only this wretched exile left, just waiting here stoically, feebly for the redeeming wreckage.
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