If not the first place you run from
Rooms too small with the windows closed
Stretched like an ill-fitting shirt
I call home a haunted house
Ghosts stare from the walls
Whisper breaths brushing potted plants
Warm to the point of burning
Roaming halls stained with memory
Walls decked in echoes
They follow me like lost dogs over the threshold
Canaries caught in cages
They sing warnings of the smoke seeping
Under door jams curling in rafters
A quiet killer caught in the throat
My voice becomes meek
Yet another casualty of the house
Or maybe it escaped out the door
To freely roam amongst the trees
YOU ARE READING
Poetics and Musings
PoetryJust a place to keep some original poetry. Feel free to leave feedback, I always am looking for it
