Antechamber

The wind howls a dirge outside the glass
And haunts the corridors of my mind.
Reflections of the nocturnal weigh heavy
In the blackened pit that was once my mind.
Frigid fingers weave a sullen haze of dark
As I again hear an unseen chain scrape
The stone outside the heavy oak door
That isolates me from the world.
Were it not for the dying fire
I would abide in my chamber
Among the dusty tomes and tapestries.
Alas, I know I must depart into the house.
With bated breath I blow out the candles
Gifting them with sudden fated death.
The sound of oak scraping stone
And the groan of rusted hinges
Echo through long-abandoned halls.
Shades of ivory moonbeams once again
Slip unladen through the fading clouds
And bony boughs now claw the glass.
What is that?
A whispered breath taking flight
From the other side of the veil?
This silent specter beckons me on
I beg of it, pray, show my eyes
A remnant if once it had form
But is the soft voice really there?
Or is it my thoughts, imprisoning me,
With a cellmate that is not there?