Haunted, like your name,
sprawled in sad red finger tips,
across cob webbed walls,
so gray with time.
We are,
filled with ghostly furniture-
I poke holes in their sheets
giving life, even still.
but their eyes leave only windows
to the now dusted landscapes of us.
I inhale the ashes,
of charred treasures,
smoldering unfinished pages,
burnt to extinction.
Yet even now, through smut
and mangled glass
I see your impression.
Stained into the walls,
Flesh or phantom,
the distinction blurs
and so I am left,

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