Musings from the shadows

I live in this dust; the cathedral quiet loads
encasement into the psyche of a lost spirit.
The old house plays her tune of shadows;
a refuge for the fettered dead,
and I dread another rising of the moon.

The small boy will see me tonight and cry,
afraid and unaware as he stares at a suggestion
of a face, a hint of existence in another place,
a bad copy, greyed and lost.
At what cost the extension of a soul?

Dawn sprays the walls in light, effaces again.
The pain of solitude locks me into plaster.
This is no dream, I scream without sound;
I stop, unseen. Unheard. Unnoticed.
Life without form, death without end.