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 The house stands still, so silent.
 Dusty covers over the furniture —
 long years since carefree laughter
      filled the rooms like tinkling bells.
 Patter of little feet,
      running and jumping
      with the delight of life —
      silent these many years …
 Only ghosts slip and slide,
 in and out
 taking form in the darkness of night
 a-haunting the fears
      relentlessly
      mercilessly,
 mocking.
      Rekindling the terror
 of innocence stolen,
 ripped out
      by the monster of the night —
           till lust satisfied

 bleeding being
 dying heart

 I am dead …
      who cares?


Copyright 1999 Fran Woods

 

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