Scared to breathe, scared to move.
Scared to leave this dark, isolated room.
I have grown fond to these shadows that are on my walls.
And to the sound of the crow that caws.
It is the only sweet music that I ever hear.
And the faces in these objects that I see
Are all filled with fear.
At first I thought they smiled,
But now I bitterly see.
The pain on their face, the echo of their moans
As they cry out for me in agony.
But these ideas are just thoughts that are in my head.
But a part of me still believes
They are the Ghosts of the Dead.
