National Poetry Month

My heart with such dread is reeling. I’m looking up at the ceiling. Something’s there though it’s something I can’t see. I felt it first when it went right through me. I shivered then because it felt so cold. The room is frigid. What do I behold? The ceiling fan is spinning round and round. It’s not turned on! Is something here earth-bound? Is there a ghost gazing down at me in my fright? Is it something wicked that visits me this night? Or is it an old soul trapped and as scared as I? Oh, that I could see it and look it in the eye. Suddenly the spinning of the fan has stopped. Something from the ceiling to the floor has dropped. I pick up a brooch that in a picture of my great-grandma I had viewed. By the brooch her death deemed accidental is with murder’s chill imbued.