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THE HOUSE OF SPIRITS

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This is for Linda the Poet Destroyer for an earily birthday present, and at Midnight

Tonight she'll have a bonus gift for she chose the number seven. Dearest Linda I

just wrote this after talking to you I hope it sounds ok, HAPPY PRE-BIRTHDAY my

Friend enjoy my special extra Halloween gift to you from your dearest friend Cheri.

It looks like a simple brownstone building, Not much different then any other but it’s residents, Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone. In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as The house of spirits. Witchery or voodoo’s domain, it is a place of salvation for Spiritual challenged, listen to the beautiful music they make, Singing within this their walled cage of brick and mortar, these Ethereal victims lost. Here in peace they wait for the light to find them, a waiting chamber, Of the lords misstep souls, those whom walked off the righteous path, Yet are not without redemptions wanton of need. Wanders of limbo’s astral plain, seekers whom roam blindly until Finding a doorway threshold, then crossing over, into this the house Of spirits. A corridors slender passageway, a way stations layover for those tired And weary travelers to rest until their final journey’s end comes for them, Sanctuaries power house of the supernatural. Behind these red doors dare not the mortal flesh clasp the gilded knockers, For within are things of the unspoken variety, creature protectors waiting at Bay for the stray intruder to wander forth upon this sacred ground. Angels kindred brethren whom seek out evil, destroyers patrolling the Darker shadows for night stalkers whom wish to feast upon the forsaken. But light’s white power is a mightier force to be reckoned with, and vanquished Will the devils spawn into the depths from which they came, into the bowels Of hell shall these demons be thrown into the blackened pit from which they came? In the twilight’s ethereal hour, a mid-ways breaking point between light and dark, A shimmering glow strikes this standing watch tower of abandonment’s forgotten, And heaven’s flood gates are opened unto them, calling these the lost upwards Towards nirvana and at last know true peace. It looks like a simple brownstone building, Not much different then any other but it’s residents. Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone. In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as The house of spirits. BY; CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014




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Date: 8/8/2019 4:57:00 PM
My friend it is a truly remarkable poem I am haunted with inspiration ~phattmatt
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Date: 11/16/2014 9:59:00 AM
Hi Cheri: A very "spirited" poetic definition of aNew York brownstone!
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Date: 10/28/2014 3:28:00 PM
A fabulous piece of Halloween poetry; I am there...watching the ghosties and spirits fly.
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Date: 10/7/2014 6:32:00 PM
really cheryl you top these dark writes beautifully penned dear friend
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Date: 10/7/2014 6:09:00 PM
Fine portrait of a haunted building - I think you meant "residents" in the fifth line from the bottom of the poem. Peace & Love Matthew Anish
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Date: 10/7/2014 4:30:00 PM
A lovely birthday present, Thank you so much. You truly are one of my best poetic friends on this site. I'm not afraid of no ghost. Spirit, plus more. I know a few of these old houses, a sanctuary of the unknown. Thank you so much, Love Linda
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Date: 10/7/2014 1:41:00 PM
Cheri . . . Another one of your bone chilling masterpieces here!! I have Fav'd this one and "Amongst The Trees." And this one too is a "7." "A chilling winds icy finger tips" is an image that stays with one. Beware of plain brownstone buildings!! Enjoyed it muy mucho!! Cheers, Gary
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Date: 10/7/2014 12:56:00 PM
I can see these souls...wandering...floating...angels coming to guide them; I have to favorite this one.
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Date: 10/7/2014 12:44:00 PM
Hi, Cheryl, sounds like my kind of house. Another great poem. SKAT
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