wandering, stumbling and fumbling
over cobwebbed boxes
where forlorn letters
crumble at the touch.
once read,
discarded and trodden,
they lay, forgotten, across the expanse
of darkness.
an eerie space of limbo,
between the was and is and will be.
this is not a house.
this is not a home.
a stranger lives here.
someone caught between today
and tomorrow,
the night and the day.
ghosts reside here,
the howls on the wind
whistling through leafless trees.
you exist here.
an inescapable dimension of your mind.
and you know,
this is where you belong.
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