Ghost Stories
You harm me with your figure and my memories, leaving me thin and hollow like the ghosts of my mistakes
I wonder why I often cry at the thought of what’s been lost
But mostly I, with tired eye, lay my head and bare my cross
This melancholic miasma, in the air and in the streams, hangs with dreary a stigma that drifts about like dreams
The hope I feel when looking back will only sting the greater and quicken in the greatest
And while the black looks dark and the white so livid I’m really searching for the grayest
My promises made unto myself are easily broken and forgone
In conclusion, the storied haunts placed high on shelves are not so easily forgotten nor forlorn
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