Bobette Bryan's Poetry
Haunted
The house that we built is haunted,
cold, bare, left in shambles.
A candle flickers somewhere
in the depths, but the lights
are off and the chambers
are devoid of warmth and luminance.
The halls that held
hope and laughter are empty,
strewn with dust, decay, and despair.
The clock is ticking still
but it's chime is broken, and it
will not sing again.
And what little is left
to bridge the past to the present
is disintegrating at a rapid pace.
I came, watched, and listened
but I felt so alone.
I didn't recognize myself
in the cracked mirrors.
I could no longer hear your voice.
Our house has become
a nightmare that I had never
counted among my dreams.
By Bobette Bryan, © 2011
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