The House on the Hill

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My soul is a haunted house

made of shadows

broken glass

full of silent wraiths

who look at me with accusation

Distorted mirrors line

long dark hallways

giving glimpses of memory

I do not welcome

I do not need to remember more

I run helter skelter into the embrace

of enormous spider webs

that cling to me like glue

like barbs

drawing blood as I struggle to break free

toll exacted for my release

Twisted stairwells

travel endlessly up and down

an Escher landscape

I grab the swinging pendulum

of the grandfather clock

hold on until my muscles

tremble with fatigue

swinging in and out of safety

hearing the tick tock

reverberate in my bones

only a matter of time

until I free fall

deep into the basement

where my skeletons wait

with hungry eye sockets

iron grip in bony fingers

tireless voices to read aloud

the tomes I tried to unwrite

disown

the past that will not stay buried

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved

5 thoughts on “The House on the Hill

  1. Your ability to verbalize your pain through the written word with such focus and beauty truly amazes me. You leave nothing to be guessed–you are so open and lovely, supportive and encouraging. You are one of those souls that others gravitate toward because you’re genuine and kind. You are truth, and I love you.

    Liked by 1 person

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