Haunted House

There are devils in my cellar,
there are angels in my loft,
and in between the house where I exist.
If it’s truth that I am giving
I couldn’t call it living
in the place I keep my tryst
with my dear friends Brahms and Liszt.
For I have to keep on drinking
to stop myself from thinking
of the spirit world above me and below.
Under foot the demons cackle,
the flames keep up their crackle,
and the angels upstairs call a fond hello.
But I do not want to listen
to the strangers in my home
for if I did I’d have to make amends.
So I hide in a depression
under cover in my bed
take a bottled therapy session
to hush the voices in my head
and to wash away the memory
of all I’ve done and said
in this house where
guilt’s chill echo never ends.