A Christmas Spirit Poem by Orlando Belo

I still hear the clock
even though it's gone,
and there's a smell in here
that lingers on.

I still see the piano
and the people too.
Those that once lived here
and those passing through.

I often straighten the pictures
so they hang just right,
and walk the rooms
almost every night.

Sometimes I move the curtains
just to peek outside.
I often see more than I'd like,
from this darker side.

I've been resident in this place
for far too long.
Whilst some of the others here
still lament in song.

They disturb the peace
around midnight,
and then show themselves
just to give a fright.

They moan and groan,
and throw things about.
Turn ornaments and pictures around,
cry, wail, scream, and shout.

There's a poor soul here
who carries his head,
how else could he see
his way past your bed.

If the floorboards talk
and disturb your sleep,
or the door handle turns
and opens with a creak.

Just close your eyes
or cover your face.
Then you'll never see
what's taking place.

We were here before you,
so please think on,
and we'll still be here
when the living have gone.