The hallway reeks of rot, rust and remembrances,
wading its way to the rooms that have no part in its
building insanity, bubbling like spells from a witch’s
cauldron. The walls once warmed by the touch of palms
now lay dilapidated, paint peeling from the corners.
The spiders weave their web of intricate stories,
their octi legs rushing to complete within the night.
The moon shines through their silken art, gleaming
them like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Shh, listen to
the nightingale sing its ekphrastic song.
Dust and dirt settle over the edges of the portraits
of my ancestors, whispering and lamenting,
envying over the living. Do not go closer, for they
pull you into their chasm of eternal grieving–
My dear heart, do not pity the dead for their state.
The hallway sits like a metaphor for my grief:
the roses in the corner, once red and regal,
now whither away into the oblivion of decay.
The vase, once gold and gleaming, now breaks
apart into a thousand pieces to stab the ignorant.
The dark and the dim dance on the heavy curtains,
away from prying eyes, in their own world of ecstasy.
The hallway is memorabilia of all things touched
by dear grief, cries and sighs like a floating
ethereal presence on its worn-down carpets.