I have been wandering these halls for hours- for years

I know each curve and corner like the veins on my hands. Every scratch on the wall like the scars on my skin.

I am this place; and it is I.

The worn faces that make themselves in the walls greet me, they laugh when I have to find another way out. I think they have been here longer than I, for nearly thousands of years since this old house stands.

Ivy makes its way down the banner of the stairs, twisted and gnarled in its old age. I run my fingertips through each strand, each thorn and leaf telling another story, for another day. 

It rains inside the old halls, clouds brew in each diamond in the chandelier. The eye of the storm, a lumineer.

This place speaks to me in whispers, in shouts. Its tears flood my eyes, its screams fill my mouth. I can’t cut myself from its grasp, it’s been too long. I am ageless, no longer finite as I was in yester-years ago.

I see its gaze in my reflection, changing faces as emotions take place. Joy for every new morning, sorrow for what could have been tomorrow. 

The walls bleed in the night. In the day, blood turns itself to wine- within these walls I suspect are grape vines.

I am not alone here, I see shadows playing games on the walls. I greet them every once in a while. Ghosts linger a bit too long after dark; screaming, crying out re-living old wounds. I have seen the prince of the fay swimming in his tears. His baby blue eyes encapsulate years and years. The king of death dances with the moon, her silver beauty breathtaking, his empty face catacomb for a man who never lived. 

This place is the in between for all that roam the dimensions of time and space. It is everything, yet nothing; it is a person, it is a place.

I am this place, and it is I.