Old Fashioned Fixtures

The old fashioned fixtures on the pedestal sink, 
candle chandeliers rusted from
all these years
 

and the spirits, blood smeared,
scream.  
 

Spellbinding the lantern lights by moon grace
strange stars on the wall are not stars at all
but like shattered stain glass, inverted demon signs
 

prickling skin, crawling breath of some haunted
demise.
 

Something bittersweet lives here; she screams the
agonic torture of blood stains and blades, she is only
as alive as the darkness.  
 
Running through the night, collapsed on stone floors,
alone.
 

Ancient tools of torture, the strappados, bone crushers
and guillotines. Silent suffocation wills whims of ghosts
glistening blades used, given life through death.
 

Lost in trickles of blood on the wall, shadows screeching
writhing.
 

Some breath heaving down the hall, final gasps of her. Hands
on stone, scratching until her fingers are crimson bones,
nails torn off, one last breath
 

until these skeletons of tortured souls are nothing but old fashioned
fixtures hanging from the ceiling.