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The Ghost Inside My Chest
I am the ghost inside my chest,
Unseen, unheard, yet never at rest.
I drift through halls of memory,
Where joy once lived but fled from me.
My breath like frost, my blood runs cold,
A whisper trapped in hands grown old.
I wear regret like funeral lace,
And see the world through sorrow’s face.
The mirror knows what I conceal—
A heart too numb, a pain too real.
Each beat, a knock from deep within,
A past that scratches at my skin.
I haunt my name, I haunt my days,
A soul lost in time’s cruel haze.
They think I smile, but cannot see
The grave I built inside of me.
But still I ache, though silence wins,
To feel the sun beneath my sins.
For ghosts can hope—though dim, suppressed—
To one day find peace at last.
Copyright ©
Rhonda Elliott
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