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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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2023




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Date: 3/1/2023 5:14:00 PM
I love it and can easily relate. Splendid!This one is a keeper, Paul.
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Paul Willason
Date: 3/2/2023 2:45:00 AM
Thanks Daniel for your positive response. Good to know when a poem finds resonance, hits the right note. Value and appreciate your comments. Paul

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