This is a poem about spirits



I was in my bedroom when the chandelier above my head began to flicker,

blinking rapidly, movements frantic and desperate.

The mysterious activity forced me to lift my eyes to the ceiling, ripping my

attention away from the pages of The Omen. 

What was this then?  Why was this happening now when the house was

empty and shrouded in deafening slience?  Were the ghosts of my

great grandparents angry because I chose to occupy my time reading a

book a child born of evil?

Or were they warning me of the troubles that would unfold years from

now, ones that would force me to contemplate entire life decisions?

Whatever the reason, my reactions were meshed with confusion, relief, and

an elevated fear.

Much more so when I felt a lightfeather touch brush against my bare skin.

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