Haunted Houses: A Poem

Fall is my favorite season. I love the crisp cool air, the goosebumps that crawl across my skin as the sun sinks behind the tree line. I love the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting from my kitchen through the house. I love early evenings and sleepy mornings. I live on an island, where the fall usually brings storms and lots of rainy days. The hustle and bustle of Summer is dying down, and I have more excuses to stay in and read.

Fall is also a great time of reflection for me. This is the time of year I realize how quickly the months are flying by, and I’m already faced with thinking about the next year. Its a sobering realization of how quickly time flies, and how we never really have as much of it as we thought, or hoped.

With Halloween here, I thought I would share some of my reverie, in the form of a poem. When I wrote it, I wasn’t aiming for creepy. When I read it back, I was a little surprised at what I had done. So without further adieu, what I hope is a creepily inspirational poem:

Haunted Houses

We are haunted houses,

the abandoned of the homes.

The skeletal system of a life,

we are dry and weary bones. 

We lay in shallow graves

mourning our sinew.

We are casualties of war

between what’s false and true.

The floorboards shout a war-cry

if, our halls, you’d walk.

If you searched us deep, 

you’d discover walls can talk. 

Our rooms inside are empty

save the splattered blood along our walls,

evidence of our battles, 

souvenirs from every fall.

If we had remaining flesh,

you can be sure it would be scarred.

But we’re only dry, cracked bones,

laying beneath the stars. 

We rattle in our rest,

by empty graves consumed…

our spirits, also hollow, 

are our supernatural tombs. 

The demons serenade us

and torture us with desire.

We are forced to feed on lies, 

and dance within their fire. 

Their embers are not warm,

their’s is a superficial flame.

But as midnight passes by, 

there’s an echoed whisper of a name…

As the crimson dawn approaches, 

the foundations begin to shake.

An order, then, is issued 

for dry bones to rise and wake. 

Muscle and flesh adorned, 

we emerge from all our graves.

And as surely as the dawn,

it is proved the Messiah saves.