The House of Ghosts

Calling out your name as it echoes
throughout these halls of oblivion,
I find myself colliding with our ghosts --
see, beside the fire;
in the garden of old wood, rust, and fallen leaves.
This house stands as a testament
to our union;
a victory preceding a downfall;
a loss of my lifeblood.

Time erodes, yet never places a hand upon us;
our fingerprints remain intact
on the fixtures amidst, never having moved
from its chosen position.

There's the bed that's much too broad,
and frore year round;
the clothes that grazed your skin,
with the fibers still awash in the scent of you;
the letters scrawled with clouded ink,
spotted with stray tears from my eyes.

I live in a museum, which I move through daily
as if shards of glass lie beneath my bare feet;
aghast that I have become an effigy
that has its roots sunken in far too deep
to ever leave this place.

I have lived here, and I have died here.

Reviews

[Great Aunt Astri]

An interesting prose poem. You describe the 'effigy that has its roots sunken in far too deep' very well.
I think many of us still live dead relationships!