The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Sunday, January 17, 2010


Profound are the whispers
Of this one haunted house
Hearing dead walk in halls
Scaring the smallest mouse

Paranormal as they may be
Are neither evil nor nice
Stuck between realms
They continue existing

I discovered their names
From the houses listing
With huge deviant demands
They keep on persisting

My absolute silence overheated
In sheer horror born of fear
They call and beckon for me
To come yet closer and near

As the only thing frozen cold
Are my feet and my icy tear
Screeches and loud groans
Of these departed unwilling

The intensity of their moans
Run wild and bone chilling
Yet only shadows can be seen
Dispersing along my ceiling

Along with the entire history
Their secrets of life are buried
Scattered along these hall walls
Many fly fast though as hurried

As I lay in my bed so paralyzed
While pretending I am not worried
Playing tricks and hiding stuff
Opening the cabinets and doors

When nothing is in sight though
Hearing eerie footsteps on floors
With no evidence of the culprit
Just sickening smell of repulse

Firmly believing they are dead
Only knowing by steady watch
Supernatural are these beings
Accepting totally that much

Glimpsing just their shadows
Oh so near yet cannot touch
Afloat they spread not in colour
Only shades of black and grey

Coexisting life they have lived
Dreadfully repeating every day
Our vivid presence, this instant
Surrender to the light, I pray

Presenting to them an open window
So they will take this final flight
Lost as they are looking eternally
For this radiant one tunnel of light

Channelled by me they sure can leave
Though only if I believe, they might
Let go these mortal needless worries
Duties, obligations of souls dread

Do not be bothered worrying anymore
About tiding up your house or bed
And simply go into the light my dear
As you are now not living but dead

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