No One Walked Alone

The night slept silent.
The house slept still.
The moon yawned white
Spilling light into the window.
Dusting light into the room.

The night slept silent.
The house slept still.
No one entered the rotted front door.
No one crept through the front entry way.
The dust in the living room,
Dining room,
And kitchen lay thickly undisturbed.

The house kept its silence
And held tight its secrets.
It slept through the night.
No one walked up the stairs.
No one paused on the mid-landing
To think or to talk.
No one continued up to the second floor.

No one walked down the hallway.
No one touched the graffitied bedroom doors.
The house slept on
As no one walked to the end of the hall.
And the moon yawned on
In the sleeping night sky.

The night darkened
As the moon ducked for a nap
Behind some thick clouds.
The house darkened
In its midnight dreaming.

And in the dark
No one came to life
And took shape.

A ball of light
As white as the moon
As warm as daylight’s heat
Floated back to the staircase.
It floated silent
As soft as a cat
As certain as a sleepwalker.

In the dark, sleeping house,
The ball of light traveled.
Past shut doors.
Throughout the dark, sullen night,
The ball of light searched
For what it had lost.
Lost so very long ago.

The ball of light floated
Through the silent house.
Dirt-ruined mirrors caught its glory
And for a moment
They shined like new.
But the moment passed
And the mirrors reflected nothing
As they dreamed of a long ago past.

The ball of light meandered
Through the silent, sleeping house.
Until, at last, it found the living room.
Light filled the rat-nested room
And revealed cobwebs and broken chairs.

It floated over to the fireplace
Once a focal point of conversations and fireglow.
Now impacted with newspapers no one read.
Small squeaks sounded
Buried deep within the yellowing paper
And the graying print.

The ball of light rose upward.
The ball of light hovered
Before a painting above
The fireplace.

A painting that still hung
In the house’s silent dreams.
In the night’s darkness.
The painting still hung.
A painting of a family.
Some faces were happy.
Others were sad.

The ball of light
Saw their faces.
It knew their faces.
It would never forget.
It could never forget.

Those faces haunted
The ball of light.
They taunted
The ball of light
In its sleepless, lifeless state.

They could not speak.
They could not touch.
So, the ball of light
Gazed upon them.
Those faces.
Those long-dead faces.
Those familiar faces.
Those haunting faces
In the dark, sleeping house.
In the dark, silent night.

December Writing Prompts

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