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“The Ghosts It's Made”
Mold growing on my walls,
wails from a ghost,
cracks in my ceiling.
Cobwebs in the corners of my windows,
the ones that collect dust.
And if I must
be content with the haunting sounds of footsteps
trailing down creaky stairs,
silent and invisible stares,
and disembodied voices that echo out in the pitch black night,
I want to make it my own,
adopting the abandoned and accepting what's left
when the world forgets the ghosts it's made.
BY: J.M.M.POWELL
© J.M.M.Powell
wails from a ghost,
cracks in my ceiling.
Cobwebs in the corners of my windows,
the ones that collect dust.
And if I must
be content with the haunting sounds of footsteps
trailing down creaky stairs,
silent and invisible stares,
and disembodied voices that echo out in the pitch black night,
I want to make it my own,
adopting the abandoned and accepting what's left
when the world forgets the ghosts it's made.
BY: J.M.M.POWELL
© J.M.M.Powell
