The Hidden

And the floor boards creak
I heard the rafters weep.
An old crypt house groan--
house where the ghosts call home.

It felt queer to sleep
where translucent feet sleek--
and aged voices speak
twist through the dust to ears.

Where warmth was shivers thrive,
dripping -plop- down my spine.
Here is the dead toes,
of late Miss Mary Jones.

Skeletons now and
nothing more. Toenails still
in the scratched floorboard.
Where here the murder is.

Souls lost right between
somewhere hot; somewhere clean.
Casting no shadow--
except over thier own.

Even ghost don't know--
the hidden do no good.
Makes one wonder where
the living come to play.