I bathe with the shadows and the cobwebs,
the dusty, fragile, fine and torn silk.
I eat with the spiders and insects,
I sleep with the pain of the past.

The stairs creak and groan,
as I move slowly up the spiraling stairs.
Listening to the echoing memory,
of long forgotten days.

I watch as rivers of withered blood,
spill over my slippered feet
and screams of a dying moment,
play to a missing beat.

The nightmares tear at my mind,
dreams scratching at my cheek.
My soul cry's out for purification,
while my flesh weeps for the weak.

Images dance and sing,
calling back what time will fetch.
The barren tress whisper delicately,
cracked glass causing the wind to keen.

I lay beside a skeletal grave,
his hand I take as I escape.

The haunting is faded,
the effort shown.
His message is broken,
recipient unknown.

A warning, a blessing,
a memoir, a tale.
Cracked and broken lips,
silent whispers

The story of a ghost.