This place is a living graveyard
I walk through the peeling walls,
Paint falling on my shoulders like snow.
I speak to the dead, whispers of rain and wind
Nothing more than thoughts.
But I am different.
I am alive, for I breathe,
the air that filters through shattered windows
Holds my lungs.
To stop moving is to embrace death.
I brush off the fingers of ghosts,
Rotted, twisted hands like skyscrapers
Twisting up along the horizon to pull me
Down
Down
Down.
I will not be gone.
And yet, every shiver that runs
From my neck to the base of my spine
Feels like another piece of my soul that has been stolen.
The dead, you see,
Like to think they are alive.
Every time I take a step
They are there, choking me, longing for my warmth.
They fight among each other
Silent screams of unknowable agony.
Can you see the tears?
They trickle down my cheeks,
crystals of ice frozen by the haunted chill of the ghosts.
It took not a day of walking,
Of staring at the faded carpets and dilapidated walls
To realise I belong
To hear the whispers and somehow
I speak the language of the dead.
What does it mean that I can understand?
I know that, too.
It means I have been stolen,
Atom by atom
And in the darkness of the night tinted grey
By the light of a lonely moon.
I am dead, too.
It is nice, to be alone.
I look around,
The ghosts are gone.
Perhaps they were memories.
