Ghosthouse of Memories
A poem
Behold it is a house with thirty stories,
stairs sprawling up and up into the sky;
clouds obscuring the upper windows,
in the corner of your eye, ghosts float about.
Those apparitions recount my words,
the very first I have pronounced.
Excited specters heeding stories
of my adventures in the yard –
I’ve searched for fairies, elves and critters,
came back with bruises on my arms.
Somewhere around the eighth of stories,
you’ll find delicious bowls of fruit,
but do not eat them, they’re unhealthy,
they’re made of oil pastel wands.
Somewhere about, my best friend’s ghost
afloat with pieces of a broken heart;
Mine chipped a little when she said
there were no real fairies ‘round.
Further above, haunted by teachers,
a study filled with essay stacks.
I had no dogs to eat my homework,
so now they’re all collecting dust.
There’s room for lovers, for feelings past,
for joy and future
that I hope may last.
My house with its thirty stories,
more yet to build before its ultimate collapse.
And once I’m gone, will then I too,
become a ghost
in someone else’s house?
