The old house loomed, a malignant essence,
Beyond the cracked and weathered way;
It stood ’mid trees with spectral presence,
Still seething under a baleful sway.

Its windowed eyes glared over twilit gloom;
Its whispered dread, a creaking breath,
Sick with its decayed, ghostly perfume
Clinging to walls like lingering death.

Teeming with memories so long forgot,
Of tragedies and ruined love,
Its halls lie dim with mouldering rot,
Below the saturnine moon above.

Something stirred within this derelict manse—
A weeping  wraith arrayed in white,
With gossamer grace and lost romance;
Gleaming under the beaming moonlight.

And watching from the road, I felt a pall;
Splinters of ice crept down my spine,
As the figure, with its cobwebbed shawl,
Turned its sunken, pallid gaze at mine.

She stared at me with her death tarnished eyes,
Mingling with lamentable tones,
Moving about in willowy sighs,
Like wind that weeps through secret poems.

I knew that face—once fair, now pale and blue—
Mantled beneath that ghostly lace;
Her name, that I had once carved into
The oak door of this forsaken place.

Her voice, once a delicate melody,
Is now a banshee’s brackish wail,
Singing her tragical rhapsody,
Like wind rushing through a barren vale.

“O Alice, my sister and friend so dear,
Who burdens my heart with your grief,
By my hand is your phantom bound here,
And my soul is left without relief.”

I turned away in unbridled torment,
And fled beneath those dying trees;
Yet still I can feel her cold lament
Floating nightly on the woeful breeze.

And now, every night, I still feel her eyes
Behind the glass of every pane—
A lasting horror that never dies,
Forever watching me through the rain.
©️2025

It doesn’t rain —
it weeps through a broken mask,
the sky unzipping its stitched-up grief
and letting sorrow bleed down like silk.

Rain drips like rosary beads
counting sins backwards,
washing blood from sidewalks
but not from time.

Animals whisper first —
fur quivering with prophecy.
Dogs howl at ghosts we pretend aren’t there.
Cats dissolve into shadow
like smoke slipping through cracks in logic.

People sleep,
wrapped in their own warmth,
not knowing the storm outside
is the Earth mourning itself.

Some cry beneath the clouds.
Some grin like broken clocks.
Some dissolve —
quiet as paper in water.

They say every night ends —
but not every soul waits long enough
to see the ink fade.
Some vanish,
not because they gave up —
but because the veil closed too tight.

And no one reads
the pages they became.

I fear a ghost has taken hold of me;
I feel its presence when I tend to wake
From eerie dreams that blur reality,
A haunting feeling that I cannot shake.
It steals from me the things I once enjoyed,
And leaves an empty feeling in their place,
As if my life were something to be toyed,
Then left alone and broken in its case.
I'm at the mercy of an angry kid
Who died alone, afraid and far too young.
Too scared to face his fears, he only hid,
And choked upon the words stuck on his tongue.
Shackled to him, I try but can't escape;
To bear the burden of his sins, my fate.