The Haunted

From our side of the looking glass the pain and despair run deep like trees roots in the graveyard of our lost loves. We walk the empty corridors of places they once dwelled; their memory plaguing our daily lives. A hint of a familiar fragrance, or the sudden sensation of being watched and before long the nostalgia twists our happy memories into melancholic years to fear. In the mist of darkness or the fog of life we see them again, their gay smiles and happy countenances twisted into ghastly phantasms just present in our presence and haunting our existence. But it’s not as it seems. On the other side of the mirror is a soul trapped in its own hell. A spirit’s thread cut short before it’s time, and now bound by it’s connection to a life it lost. Never wandering far, nor able to move on, its chained to the stale existence of a world beyond the living. Watching like a movie it can’t escape, it’s hard to distinguish in the fog and mist if the living are haunted by the dead or the dead are haunted by the living.