Patricia and Stefan Wilde

My pallid hand in
the hand of darkness

we drift the dimmed passsages
the sunless hallways
without respite

the framed dead
unameable
resigned to dust,

stilled forever beyond life
no longer glorified in their earthly magnificences
look down from shrouded walls.

from the grave
I have come,
ghosting.

an unwillling participant,imprisoned
in the invisible reality
of this...

What right have you?
poor little wretched spirit
to stain with your white transparency
this blackened room

leave me to the safe darkness
of this corner
where I huddle
guarding my fear

let me be deaf
to your pitiful wailings
stripping me of my sanity.

sicken no longer the dank air
you have chilled
with the scents of fleshless odours,perfumes of the dead

I cannot understand...