the gas lamp
keeps you warm at night
when you're all alone
and nobody's home.
the soft orange warms
you with its fire.
and the strange sounds
coming from upstairs
don't seem so haunting.
the small knocks on the
floorboards
don't strike fear as much
as they used to.
the whispering dead
don't hold you
as tightly as they once
did.
no need for the closet
where you once
hid -
afraid of the dark,
afraid of the faces
that stood out
in the shadows
only to retreat
when you glanced their
way.
afraid of the rope
slung
over the rafters.
afraid of the smell
from the lamp
when it burned.
you like the way it feels
not to have to feel
that way anymore -
as you glance down at
the note
you left behind,
illuminated by the
soft glow
of the gas lamp that
once warmed you
when you
were
alive.
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