My frame is decaying, and faster if I stand.
A house, and I’m haunted, on hopes burial land.
These Windows, hollow eyes, do nothing but stare,
At a world that shunned one with a life meant to bare.

These floors that creek, mimic my mournful cry,
As phantoms, ever watching, shed skin then pass by.
Warm words that were etched on the walls are ice cold.
These echoes of a story that will never be told.

The clock is still ticking. Its haunting echoes, like screams.
If only to remind me that I’m shattered, like dreams.
These cobwebs were spun, if only to trap solace.
My light has been buried, long ago under a promise.

“Oh, cursed soul," A ghost haunts as I weep.
“Do you feel the...