Haunted House By Maranatha

      Untrodden, the road there gathered dust

      Silence salutes the visitor miles away

      The din of dirty children

      The buzz of busy flies

      And the ceaseless march of strangers’ feet

      They halt as you approach

      And that house stands

Beaten by rain
Whipped by the harmattan wind
Its caving walls and sagging roof
They speak of loneliness
And still it stands

Behind dingy blinds
There are flickering lights
Or are there lights really?
Or do I,
Not wishing it to be so dark
Imagine that pale yellow light
Blinking hesitantly
But there it stands

And behind those dying walls there are
Ghosts of ghosts that died within them
Echoes of voices that spoke behind them
Remains of the nothing that dwelt within them
So it stands

Eaten by its dustiness
Consumed by its loneliness
Falling beneath the weight of its emptiness
Haunted, deeply, darkly, strangely haunted
But by what?
For all the ghosts have died

By Maranatha C. Abraham

FlyThings

2 Comments

  1. Wonderful poem, highly rhythmic and ful of ‘haunting’ imagery… The world needs poets like you whose message can creep into the soul in a sort of conjural incitement. I doff my heart for the pen which scribbled this.
    Keep it up Miss Maranatha, it reeks of spontaneity, the truly indispensable asset of a real poet.

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