Haunting
Stranded, half awake
on the exhausted ends
of an evening, the minds
graveyard keeper sometimes
lets occupants loose.
You can feel their cold feet
walk the corridors
inside your head,
picking over a secret
or a hidden fear, lifting
the scab of a hurt.
It becomes a familiar haunting,
in time a few become friends.
They know their way
and make themselves at home
before tiptoeing back
to their place of sleep.
It takes a lifetime to give
each headstone a name.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
