Flowers have withered, Fountains have run dry,
In a state where the whole house was a visual cry,
Nobody ventured near it, nobody tried,
Foolish was the word for one who enterprised.
Every day through my window I see the house,
Filled with the usual lot of eerie ghost grouse,
People say that the ghost there hates every living thing,
Ripping up all of them without remorsing.
Once I decided to check the ghost with curiosity but no desire,
The house looked bleak, as if ready to catch fire,
I entered through the broken back door,
Into a room whithered out by unkempt galore.
Dust, mud and broken glasses were the ghosts company,
I stepped on as if I was part of the whole melachony,
No one knows what dreams were built in this place,
No one knows between it's walls what despair was faced.
Far down the doorway I saw a broken mirror hung on the wall,
I went towards it, feeling for the place which has suffered such a fall,
Light was fast fading outside but still there was no sign of my host,
I peered through the mirror, to realise... it was I, who was the ghost.