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