VIII. The Architecture of Abandon

The staircase is spiraling, a serpent of teak, With a groan in the wood and a silver-edged squeak. The windows are cataracts, clouded and grey, That have blinded the sun and have murdered the day. The hallways are stretching, a mile of dust, With doorknobs of bone and a hinges of rust.

I walk through the ballroom where chandeliers weep, In a rhythm of crystal while centuries sleep. The wallpaper peels like the skin of a ghost, Revealing the cracks of the things I fear most. The portraits are watching with ink-heavy eyes, Tracing the shape of my silent, pale cries.

“Welcome,” the rafters all hollowly hum, “To the city of ghosts where the spirits are numb.” The cellar is breathing, a lung made of stone, Inhaling the marrow and exhaling the bone. The roof is a ribcage that’s broken and wide, To catch all the sorrows that linger inside.

You’ll wander the ruins, you’ll haunt every floor, But you’ll never find exit or shadow of door. For the house is a hunger, a temple of clay, And the architecture simply won’t let you away.