Haunted House

Such moisture—a fetid wound; and such death, to walk the 
Plank. My bass, my song—the deepest drop. And so aware—
This tempo; and so alive—this passion. I’m indebted—a well
Of tragedy. Years breed scars; and wisdom favors pain. Plus
The mirror—a mother’s child. My reflection, the wings of
Grief—and such—my heritage. And I ponder, a censured
Thought, where bass, my song—the deepest drop. Such
Moisture—a fetid wound; and such life, to climb the death.  
And what vision!—to scrape the skies; and what faith!—to
Whisper soft. And such invisibility—a desert monk. My
Phantom soul, a well of tragedy; and blink the stars—my
Fairest wound—blink the stars. Else the ache, a heart
Consumption, an artless imp. My pulse, my fear—the deepest
Drop. And so aware—this tempo; and so alive—this passion.