there are
no ghosts
within
the wall,
no spectral
things
who walk each hall,
whose footsteps step
in time with yours,
no murdered spirits
with ageless scores,
there are no things,
lacking all name
who mold our minds
to shame and same,
there’s nothing here
your soul to borrow,
they’re not here;
you’re gone tomorrow,
for no ghosts hide
beneath these floors,
this strange architecture
which year-to-year stores
the energy of Creation-times,
no creatures remembering
ageless crimes,
perpetuating now,
upon those that breathe
a heart to flame,
a head to seethe,
there are no demons,
never human,
whose language is torture,
and whose acumen
is pain, pain, a whole library
of hurt
running your veins,
never inert.
there’s not,
within this place most haunted
the things by which
most minds are daunted,
there are no spirits in the garden,
there’s nothing that thinks
it owes you
pardon,
there are no specters,
ghouls,
or shamblers,
no quaint spirits
of murdered gamblers,
there are no souls
within the walls
and that voice
which quietly,
eternally calls,
belongs to no spirit,
nor thing not-of-man,
your head has no veto,
your heart has no ban,
there are no ghosts
and not a single curse;
there’s only me
and I’m far worse.
