The Haunting
On drear and endless nights
when the thunder in my head
is louder than
the thunder beyond my window
and sleep denies me rest,
I have to wash my eyes several times,
for her face imprints itself
behind closed eyelids.
The departed move on, travel away
from the gravity of this place and time,
they are unshackled from us,
we who may still cling
to our own emotional chains.
What does she want of me?
It was a short torrid affair,
why this lifetime haunting?
You cannot dream someone out of your soul,
it's not about memory or forgetting,
if there was once love
it is a now only a torn rag
flying upon heedless winds,
a make-believe insubstantial thing.
Why does she paint herself before me,
and why do I disappear
when she looks upon my aged being?
I wash my eyes and often wonder
if it is really I that haunt
her.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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