The House of Spirits

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