My Soul Resides in a Haunted House

It’s so effortlessly poetic,
The disillusioned city lights
Screaming something vital at me.
I guess I let the sirens seem cynical
While I laid, half dressed, against my
Creaking bedroom wall, closed my eyes
And just listened.

I could smell the cobwebs burning,
First along the ceiling,
Soon to my nightstand.
I had creaked my door open.
Your heart pounded butane
Through flimsy veins,
Admiring Arachne’s work
In every corner of my mind,
Every crack in the windowsill.
And then, in all your glory,
You ignited.

I suppose it really is just that easy
To watch years of ignorance disintegrate.
With every pale strand
Charred black from end to end,
I yearned to hear the bumps in the night
And creaking and cobwebs and chaos
To give my soul a tangible reason
to feel haunted.

Now, I sit in dead silence,
Blowing voids in the smoke,
Ringlets in the fog.
Me, in the silence,
With ghosts that don’t know where the door is.