You told me to say goodbye to yesterday.
You told me it’s just a ghost that haunts my way,
And today I saw it walk across my street;
And today it’s presence reminded me,
That we can’t run from where we’ve come,
Without growing, in the knowing, of what’s been done.
I see you…the ghost of yesterday…
K. Aldaya, ’05
Picture: Uploaded by BonnieBleuVa on Photobucket; http://s217.photobucket.com/user/BonnieBleuVa/media/My%20photos/1spookywoods12936969-lg.png.html
Down the stairs I wander.
In the dark of night I ponder.
What lives within its’ darkness.
My curiosity grows fonder,
Of the blackness which veils,
Revelations and lost tales;
As my legs shake they continue.
Step by step one voice prevails.
The air is cold and wet,
As the darkest black is met,
And the shivers up my spine:
They’re not mine…Oh, they’re not mine!
As the shivers overtake me,
I yell, “What have you done to me?”,
And a breath upon my ear replies,
“You know, but will not see.”
A scream echoes inside,
And I crawl to the rooms’ side,
As the dirt upon the floor,
Invades my every pore.
The dark reaches in me,
As I hide in my body.
Tears stream down an empty face.
Skin is stone, and I am free.
I close my eyes and there…
In the dark a form is there!
I see it. I can see!
Then a sudden light blinds me.
I awaken in my bed,
Still feeling that doom and dread.
I sit up to the side,
And in my hands I rest my head.
I lift my head and sigh,
And it turns into a cry.
Satans’ face breathes on mine,
And growls: “Sing me a lullaby!”,
“As I rape all that is mine”……..
–I walk the house today,
And every door and every way,
Leads down a dark staircase;
So down I step, and step again, as memories replay.
K. Aldaya, 3/26/15
Picture: Photographer Unknown; http://ak.picdn.net/shutterstock/videos/4628543/preview/stock-footage-creepy-possessed-man-in-the-basement-attacks-camera.jpg
Whisper not a whisper,
Or someone is bound to hear;
And it echo and repeat itself,
For all the world to hear.
Whisper not a whisper,
For even the wind has ears;
And a tongue for blowing secrets,
And spreading fears.
Whisper not a whisper.
Hold it in and hold your breath.
Let tears o’erflow the flood-gates,
And hold back the ghosts of death.
Whisper not a whisper,
They can hear! They can hear!
From their haunted world they listen!
Hush…do not let them hear!
Whisper not a whisper,
As ghosts are for the dead,
And should not find a home to haunt,
In any others’ head.
Whisper not a whisper,
Lock the door and close the blinds.
Protect those who do not know,
What searching here finds.
Whisper not a whisper,
No one may enter here.
Save all from what’s unseen.
Save all from what’s to fear.
Whisper not a whisper,
Or someone is bound to pay.
The haunted world must be contained;
They will not have their way!
Whisper not a whisper,
And they won’t find anyone.
Stay inside and make a stand,
For the past can’t be undone.
So, whisper not a whisper,
Crouch and hum an eerie tune;
And wait and rock until it’s time,
To greet the lonely moon.
For if whispered-out a whisper,
Someone is bound to hear;
And it echo and repeat itself,
For all their ghosts to hear.
K. Aldaya, 12/28/14
Picture: Photographer Unknown; http://favim.com/image/340275/
Red as sun-lit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
In my hand is an old-withered rag of white,
And in my soul a battlefield,
Plays a ghostly reenactment of the costly fight.
–Bloody is the rag which tries to hide a guilty soul,
Yet bloodier are the hands which clean without a rag that’s whole.
Red are these hands and the only I have known,….
Are these hands with fresh-blood dripping…
Dripping, and dripping guilt and pain; scrubbing all alone.
Blue as restless oceans crashing to the shore,
Are the tears which crash to the earth,
Never enough to clean the hands of an old child-whore.
–Red as sunlit roses in the budding-Spring,
The pavement glistens with fresh blood,
And in my heart a piercing thorn bears the moments’ sting.
K. Aldaya, 8/19/14
Picture: Inspired by American McGee’s Alice: Madness Returns; Artist Unknown; http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_maly49hnQp1qkuk8lo1_500.jpg
There is a box.
It sits there on a shelf in the closet.
In that box,
There is a hole,
Leading to a heart beset by its’ soul.
There is a box,
Full of dusty, forgotten histories,
Faded time,
Which haunts and seeks,
As a wintery, cold breeze;
It ebbs and piques.
There is a box,
Which stores ages’ unfaceable decrees,
In the faces.
Pictures. Photos.
Wailing: what-cannot-be’s no one else knows.
There is a box.
It sits there on a shelf in the closet.
In that box,
There lie remnants,
Of a splintered-hearts’ kismet,
In a glance.
Can you see it?
The box of ghosts tucked away on that shelf?
Whispering….
Psst…over here…
Lie truths you hide from yourself,
And you fear.
K. Aldaya, 5/18/14
Picture: Photographer Unknown; http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_t1__dHwvHEI/TBhOxBIZY9I/AAAAAAAAJxs/7vv-0AzqF48/s400/IMG_5151a.jpg
My Soul is a Lock Without a Key 
