I.
In scattered halls where echoes dwell,
Buildings weave their stories well,
A tapestry of lost design,
Beautiful chaos, a strange align.
A hallway drifts with nowhere to end,
A staircase climbs where the ghosts descend.
Behind a door I can’t recall,
The lights are on,
casting a thrall.
II.
This place feels like déjà vu,
Not quite here,
yet hauntingly true.
The wallpaper speaks in colors anew,
Windows misplaced, askew in view.
A vending machine offers curious wares,
I navigate familiar, elusive layers.
I know the hallway to the restrooms' grace,
The elevator's chime,
its familiar embrace.
I dare not glance through
the basement's eye -
A secret I carry,
but don’t know why.
III.
Some rooms cradle the trace of the past,
A chair left waiting,
memories cast.
A television hums a spectral tune,
To channels where shadows of ghosts commune.
A coat hangs still,
warmth in the air,
I linger,
hoping for someone elsewhere.
Yet time reveals in quiet despair,
I am the one waiting,
caught unaware.
IV.
The building whispers in muted tones,
Lights dimmed softly,
tired moans.
Doors cease their dance in silent repose,
Even the walls wear the weight of woes.
Today I found a window's glance,
Outside lay my childhood, a fleeting chance.
My house stood there, a beacon bright,
My bedroom aglow,
a comforting light.
Behind the curtains, a figure near,
I waved to a shadow, and it waved here.
V.
But I didn't leave;
I felt no call to a home that might not hold me at all.
I wandered onward,
through rooms that sigh,
Past staircases spiraling into the sky.
Little mistakes the building had made,
While grasping at memories that surely had frayed.
Eventually,
the chaos faded from view,
As comfort emerged from the strange and the new.
Perhaps what makes a place liminal,
Is not the unfamiliar,
but the familiar,
visceral -
For a moment,
it feels like the heart’s own throne,
More familiar than home,
yet never my own.
-
Author:
The Skeptic (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 21st, 2026 02:02
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Paul Bell, Tristan Robert Lange, 𑣲┆cursed ˚.⋆ֹ
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Comments3
Haunting a surreal dream of a familiar place but not real although it feels real. Here one wanders but is never at home. Well written with numerous symbols of the spiritual. Heaven, hell, spirits all have a part here. Well done
Thank you, Soren. Your comments are always appreciated!
You are always most welcome
They always say you should never revisit a place, the memories always distort.
Yet sometimes you need to, maybe for closure.
Always found myself that it never worked.
What an extraordinary poem, delusions! The endless architecture feels like memory attempting to reconstruct a home from incomplete pieces. The figure returning the speaker’s wave is chilling, but the decision to continue wandering cuts even deeper. Sometimes the place that feels most intimately familiar is precisely the place to which we can never return. Brilliant work, my friend! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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