The fabric of this place
Is sterile by nature,
But something else taints its stature.
A tension beneath the frigid face.

If I believed in ghosts,
I’d imagine I’d find them here;
Wandering the halls and in every drop of fear.
The kind every soul around me hosts.

But I’m practical in ways,
And so I keep them at arms reach.
I watch the numbers and smell the stench of bleach,
As it wafts through the bays.

If I give into my more superstitious thoughts,
And let the hauntings in;
I might recognise in a ghost, what I see within.
They may even follow me beyond the door.

And in my day to day fodder,
I’d be reminded of back then,
And have to look at versions of me
Who instead of emerging,

have all ceased to be.