The Haunting
The midnight knew my hidden name
Before she learned to cry;
The moon, a pale and trembling flame,
Hung like an ever-watching eye.
The floorboards whispered, one by one,
Of footsteps buried long ago;
They walked where neither star nor sun
Had found the courage yet to go.
The walls inhaled a silent breath,
As though the house itself could mourn;
Its timbers dreamed of love and death,
Of broken vows and hope forsworn.
A voice arose without a tongue,
A shadow moved without a face;
The ancient bells were never rung,
Yet echoed through that haunted place.
I fled—but every road I knew
Returned me to that shadowed door,
Where grief, more faithful than the dew,
Waited as it had before.
Then softly spoke the endless night:
"You cannot outrun what you keep.
The deepest ghosts avoid the light—
They make their silent homes in sleep."
So here I dwell, and here remain,
Where memory wears a spectral shroud;
For every heart that shelters pain
Becomes its own eternal cloud.
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