by Brent Hightower
A loveless house is filled with ghosts,
Of what might have been, and what will never be.
Some vital force is absent here, withdrawn into itself,
Some emptiness of lurid shadows.
This slanting sun, this pale evening light,
Cannot pierce the all pervasive darkness;
Here where the world begins, and also where it ends.
Outside I hear children - distant laughter,
Voices that echo through the closing year,
And yet there are no children here,
But just this litany, this faint murmuring
From long ago, passing through the cracks of time.
Forgotten here for fifty years, these children
Still in this space, waiting for their mother.
There are no ghosts in joyous houses.
Not this heavy sense of bygone days,
No brooding shadows, like those here beside the bed,
Falling more starkly now than even memory.
Where love has been the spirit needn't linger.
A loveless house is filled with ghosts,
Regrets resounding through eternity.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
I am the author of two novels, The Broken World, and Ode To Belladonna. I recently came to poetry after 30 years of not working in the medium because I was inspired to write a poem for the great Portuguese fado singer, Mariza, and I look forward to adding a collection of poems to my novels at some time in the near future.
Last updated November 13, 2015