Untouched

The walls are broken, the stairs are misshapen.
The windows flood with broken bits of light.
The shadows fall down, their blood is binding,
captive inside barren rooms.

She creeps down the halls, faded portraits and
withered flowers grace the crumbling wallpaper.
She barely breathes, afraid that breathing might
destroy what is left of this facade.

The dimming lights from forgotten lampposts
glitter in her dreamless dreams. She can't
speak, breathing cerise in an ivory womb.
Faint lines speak of what lies underneath her.

Her confliction takes on flesh, it grows limbs.
It gains heft and vigor, it seems to live as
she has lived. A fire cackles, like a burning
witch's last farewell, a spark of being.

The roof is crestfallen, the doors crucified to
their posts. The hall is filling with water,
the rooms echo with the sound of drowning
shadows and ethereal cries for help.

She remains untouched, dancing within the
brackish guilt that floods the rafters of her
reality. The cadence of each step, aching and
yearning for release from her magical chains.