On The Other Side

Where the dead does not tread, they can only hide,

In shadows, in darkness, shying away from mortal cries.

Abandoned halls, corridors twisting and windows busted,

A lone shadow stalks the passages between light and dark,

They are there, there in shadows, gone when the sun rises.

They are broken things, their forms all thin and twisted.

Hush. They are listening, skittering, already under your bed.

They lurk, taking to shadows of the attic and cloest, screaming,

Hiding, fleeing, broken nails scratching at the floorboards.

Dappled sunlight, fluttering leaves on the wind, singing birds,

An exhale, sharp edges softening, convulsing spirits lie down,

They rest in the light of the living, dreaming of broken wishes.

Where the dead does tread, it is there that you know they died,

They are silent, watchful, and observant as their loved ones cry.

They are part of every memory and story you have ever read,

As darkness comes once again, the house is silent, remembering,

Be still, listen. Their spirits remain to remind you they once existed,

In places none dare walk are the worlds where they have persisted.