The Haunted House: A Poem

A sonnet.

Please read my usage policy before asking for permission to use this piece.

The better part of fear is fear itself —
And so we pride ourselves upon our minds,
Which range our strengths like knick-knacks on a shelf
And pack away whatever weakness finds.
The rooms of intellect are round and spare
Of any shadowed corner where might lie
The dust of childhood myths, the cracks of care,
And cobwebs where our heartbeats creep to die.

The walls and window-panels may be clean,
The floors swept bare of conscience-pricking pins,
But still outside the wind howls, and the lean
And hungry ghosts, the shadows of our sins,
    Come slithering up from their cellar lairs,
    And stalk the halls, and whisper on the stairs.

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