Ghosts in My Closet Poem

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In the dark, as night descends,
My room is hushed, no noise pretends.
But as I close my eyes to rest,
A stirring comes, a spectral quest.
A rustling sound, a faintest breeze,
A chill runs down, I start to freeze.
I turn to see, with bated breath,
A figure cloaked in shades of death.
My closet door, it creaks and groans,
Unveiling secrets, long unknowns.
A ghostly presence, pale and wan,
Emerges from the shadows drawn.
Its eyes, like coals, burn with fire,
Its voice a whisper, tinged with ire.
It tells a tale of sorrow deep,
A restless soul, who cannot sleep.
It speaks of days long passed away,
Of love and loss, a price to pay.
Of dreams unfulfilled, regrets amassed,
And a life cut short, a breath that's gasped.
I listen close, with heart held tight,
As the ghost shares its haunting plight.
Its sadness seeps into my soul,
A melancholy, a story untold.
But then, it fades, a misty wraith,
Back into darkness, a spectral wreathe.
My closet door, now closed and still,
Leaves me wondering, with a chill.
Are ghosts real, or just a dream?
A figment of my mind's own scheme?
But in my heart, I cannot deny,
The ghost I saw, with my own eye.
So now, each night, I leave it be,
My closet door, a portal free.
For who knows what secrets it may hold,
What tales of ghosts, both young and old.