The Haunting
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.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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