Den här dikten är baserad på en verklig händelse.
When evening falls I do my rounds
of the old house that I live in.
I check the doors, I check the locks.
I make sure that every window’s closed.
Turn off the lights, turn off the music,
make sure that I’ve remembered
to turn off the stove.
And then I look out at the mist covered grove
and I feel a shudder down my spine,
but there’s nowhere to hide.
So I turn on the TV and reach for a book,
and I force myself not to turn and look
as a shadow passes behind me.
In daytime my house is of shadow and light.
There is both and aplenty: -History, dreams.
Old walls that speak sing such beautiful songs
as the wind turns from whisper to caresses.
Suncats and butterflies dance just outside.
The kids at the neighbors play seek and hide,
though the dogs bark at visits that no one can see.
The radio turns on by itself.
A photograph falls from the shelf.
And somewhere close to my closet,
the shadows draw near,
and I feel my serenity turn into fear
as someone tries to get inside my mind.
Blackness and redness confusing my head.
Darkness and mist and a terrifying clarity.
Someone reaches and breaches with startling delight
into my innermost sanctum, my head and my heart.
My breath comes to halt and my hot blood is freezing
as a shadowy hand oh so subtly is seizing
a grip on my thoughts and emotions.
But this is my body, my thoughts can go deeper
than ghosts or a demon, the gods or the reaper.
I still have control of my spitfire soul.
Go back to your hell!
You’re not welcome here.
In my home I am king,
without and within.
So you will leave this place,
yes in grace or disgrace.
Spirit of living or spirit of dead,
I decide who can stay
in the place where I live.
And now you must go
because I say so.
I haven’t had as much trouble
since I cast out that ghost,
though sometimes there are whispers
and the shadows draw close.
It's not like before, I have settled the score.
It’s my house, it’s my place, it’s my core.
And no wandering spirits allowed.
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