The Tenant of the Ruin
The floorboards groan beneath a phantom weight,
Of every "yes" I spoke when I meant "no."
I've barred the shutters and I've locked the gate,
But the haunting isn't coming from below.
It's in the rafters, in the peeling paint,
The ghost of who I was yesterday.
A helpful spirit, patient as a saint,
Who watched the structural beams begin to sway.
Is it a crime to patch the broken glass?
To drive the shadows from the master room?
I watch the living world begin to pass,
And tell myself I'm tethered to the gloom.
To help myself feels like a sacrilege,
A torch held up against a holy dark.
I linger on the crumbling windows ledge,
Afraid to strike a single, healing spark.
For if I fix the roof and mend the door,
The ghosts of everyone will have no bed.
I'd rather rot upon the cellar floor,
Than claim the house for my own life instead.
But even ruins deserve a steady hand,
And even haunted halls can find their peace.
The "wrong" is letting the foundations strand,
And granting the decay a permanent lease.
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