Melancholy

This life reflects a long dead home,

The creaking door, my weary bones,

And memories I hold inside,

Tilting pictures cast aside.

In darkened halls I stride in pain,

As lifeblood to these withering veins,

And deep beneath in basement dark,

A cold and black and lonely heart.

Ghosts still haunt the empty rooms,

Of friends and family gone too soon,

And verily I long to leave,

To none though do I have to flee.

And long shall I be wandering,

Now weeping, then seeking, and pondering,

If one exists to ease the pain,

The rain begins, it rains again.