The Host

One of my more recently worked on projects that I had started years ago with no intention of continuing was a book of horrible romantic poetry, inspired by Poe; about loving the dead, dying and being. I'm now one third through completion of this collection, with the most recent addition being the poem below; I feel it's not the best in the book, and it's not as good as I wanted, but it didn't take me long and it's enough that it exists.  Writing in an ill lit house, all alone, and trying to embody the sentiment of feeling like a stranger in one's own sanctuary can really cause a chill. I'm not superstitious, but...

Though I’m aged

I know, well enough

that I’m sane,

and certainly

no madness

is plaguing my brain

but now, as I walk

through this old house of mine

(it was my fathers’

and his fathers’ before, at one time)

I see strangers have invaded

though I see them so rare,

they move much like phantoms,

as though they weren’t there

and they hardly acknowledge I,

unless for long I should stare,

that were I slightly softer

they’d elicit a scare!

I asked who they were,

they gave no reply,

simply shuddered so coldly

and let out a sigh-

were my late wife with me

it should force her to cry-

and how rude that they are

that my trinkets they’ve moved!

These invaders are ignorant,

that’s all that they’ve proved

and they hustle and bustle

so loud, day and night

that they wake me from slumber;

in darkness, in light

and I try to be patient,

but how it does hurt my head

to be forced to their lifestyle-

they should wake up the dead!

They even called in the priest

and he asked me to leave,

with furious intonation-

he didn’t even say ‘please’.

So I’ll resort to stubbornness,

yes, I’ll bang and I’ll shout

and in the quiet moments

I shall scream:

“GET OUT!”

For I will not be pushed

from being in my house

and I’ll throw all their things,

I’ll be the most dreadful host,

for they are my guests

and I am no ghost…