The Haunted Painting

The Haunted Painting

It hangs in silence in hazy smoke

beside the stair, against the oak

its frame too still, its oils too deep

to leave the walls or let them sleep

The woman wears a shade of black

no century could quite bring back

her eyes, not wide, not closed, not kind,

were made to watch, not just remind

Each night the brushstrokes start to stir

though no one moves, and none touch her

she shifts, a fraction to the right

a whisper fidgets in the light

The wallpaper begins to peel

a hush spreads out like something real

the floorboards groan in nervous thought

as if the house recalls what’s not

Some swear her hand was once a rose

now clenched too tight, the petals froze

and others think they saw her mouth

form shapes that drifted slowly south

A child once waved and waved again

and slept that night inside her frame

his laughter flickers now and then

beneath her painted, ghostless grin

So leave it be, please don’t stand too near

don’t test the hush, don’t mock the fear

for she is there, and she can wait

in varnished calm, in patient hate

It’s not the eyes that make men run

but how she moves when day is done.

Never smiling to befriend you at all

The haunted picture on a cold damp wall.