There are ghosts that live with me.
They follow me around.
They bother me incessantly,
but never make a sound.
They haunt me with their sweet, sweet smiles,
telling me how they'd still be around
if I had gone the extra mile.
There are
old men,
tiny babies,
little girls.
So many girls with their
curls,
and twirls.
Laughing girls.
They sing songs to my grieving heart,
about the good times we shared.
And I cry out, "Oh! If I had only dared.
Or cared.
But I thought I cared...I swear."
"And if my heart ached any more
it would break!
And if my eyes cried any more
they would crack!
And if my soul searched any more
it would lose its own self."
So I try to put these memories on a shelf.
I close them in boxes,
and lock them behind doors,
but they moan
and say they've heard it before,
and they keep banging,
banging on my door,
and I am curled up on the floor.
Suddenly the banging stops.
I hear balls and chains roll and drop.
I go to the door to watch them wander,
and about why they are leaving,
I sit there and ponder.
But then one pale waif,
(Whose name I know, but dare not speak.)
turns and looks at me,
with eyes of obsidian stone,
and tells me something I'd rather not know.
He says:
"We are going for a time.
But don't worry,
we'll be back."
Then he walks away into the black.
And as I think about what he said,
his words echo,
through the hollow that is my head.
