Trapped

I died many years ago at the age of sixteen from some unknown cause,
I don’t really remember dying, I wasn’t in pain, or at least I don’t think I was,
Anyway, now I’m trapped in a world between life and death,
I’ve been trapped here ever since I took my last breath,
My world is an exact replica of the world I once was involved with,
However, I’m the only resident here, my name: Mandy Smith,

The streets are desolate, run down and often dusty,
The air is thick, filthy and always musky,
There are barely any colours, mainly grey with a brown undertone,
Many objects represent the colour of stone,
I don’t feel dead, I still breathe, but in a whole different place,
Time never changes, the same 5:10 on the clock face,
Night never arrives and the sun never comes to play,
Instead the streets are lit an unexplainable way,
There are no lights to speak of, no sign of sun,
Yet there is some light, but I’m not sure where from,

I haunt the empty streets, my footsteps echoing through the abandoned town,
The dust settles in my shoulder-length hair and on my torn gown,
I reach my destination, the place I visit every day,
My home, the place where I died, the place in which I long to stay,
I open the front door and stand in the never-ending hallway,
And sometimes I’ll stay stood here, remain in the same spot all day,
I don’t get tired; I mean I’m dead after all,
And I begin to scan every inch of the house, every corner and every wall,
Trying to remember my purpose for life,
But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore,

I often venture upstairs to what was once my room,
Everything is how I left it, or so I assume,
I pick up various pictures of my family, but don’t remember much,
I always notice that my family’s rooms are open, but their things, I never touch,
I lightly run my finger along the bookshelves and the mantelpiece,
Reminiscing about what could have been,
My finger leaves a trail from where it had disturbed the peaceful dust,
I continue to linger around the house; I feel it’s a must,
I’m drawn to this place for a reason I cannot understand,
Even though nothing changes, it’s my own little wonderland,

Everything is the way I left it, they I like it and the way I want it to be,
I don’t really get lonely, but I wish someone could share it with me,
But I know that’s not possible, I’m trapped here alone,
But I don’t mind, I like being on my own,
It gives me time to reflect on things I vaguely remember,
Like our family gatherings in the frosty December,
I struggle to remember everything, well anything really,
All I remember is having a family and a sister named Lily,
I wish I could watch over them, like I had promised,
I would love to see how lily grew, hopefully kind and honest,

I've begun to notice that there are no mirrors and no pictures of me,
And any family photo including me, has my face removed, why could this be?
Am I not allowed to remember what my appearance once was?
Or is it just another sign that my life has ended and that my aging has paused?
Sometimes I wonder if the absence of my image is a symbol for something sinister,
Or whether it just represents my absence from life, I’m no longer a villager,
Maybe my family have forgotten about my existence,
Now that I have clearly become distant,
What if they've tried to forget about me and dispose of any trace of my being?
I’ll guess that I shall never know now I’m no longer breathing.

It saddens me to know that I will never escape this land or receive any answers to my queries,
Instead, I have to imagine what my life would have been like and create my own stories,
I’m not sure how long I have been stranded in this desolate town as time has stopped,
The same old 5:10 on the face of the clock.