Spirits

I can handle being bourboun and bitters,

a bit of sugar

and a lot of history,

but what if I'm just

the Aztec ruins?

Deserted,

so abandoned 

I'm not even haunted,

spirits aren't sacrificing 

to their gods here.

Or maybe I'm an old theater,

ticket box still boasting 

"Information here"

lost wonder hanging over 

rows of tattered scarlet velvet seats,

so palpable it's like swallowing water.

The spotlight might flicker on a couple times, 

making visitors believe in lingering playwrights

or faulty electrical wiring.

I'd rather be 

an empty Victorian mansion,

ornately framed mirrors 

hanging in hallways

lined with gold-flecked wall paper

There would be tours through me,

a guide telling a wide-eyed family 

of a long ago beauty who wore a white gown,

they'd marvel at her hairbrush

and gasp when they found out

she committed murder,

blood stains browned on the white satin,

hanging next to the mirror,

above an old feather quil 

she never used

on a dusty antique writing desk.