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A ghost walks my halls…
He calls, but I can’t hear him
He claws, but I can’t feel him
He falls, and yet I catch him
Dust him off and I inspect him
As he coughs I start to question
His resolve in haunting me.

Could it be that this old specter
Had run out of options better
Resigned to inconsequential
Haunting those who don’t believe?
(The “those” there meaning me)
I sit him down for tea.

“Spirit,” at length I started,
Quite polite to the departed,
“Could it be you’re broken-hearted,
Or just seeking some relief?
Perhaps there’s grief that you once suffered
That requires you to cover
All the floorboards of my hallway
And deprive me of my sleep…”
The specter did not speak.

“Spirit, once again I ask,
Why is it you’ve crossed my path
And left an empty casket
To meander round my keep?
Do you weep to be remembered?
Are you just a burning ember,
All that’s left of mortal coil,
That dares not to yield defeat?”
The silence did repeat.

“Spirit!  I demand an answer!
Spare me not your fate of chance, or
Circumstance, that bounds your
Endless nightly haunts to me.”
And as the bitter coldness blistered
He cleared his throat and barely whispered
Words that crept out of his lips,
So gaunt and pale and weak:

“When those become who those will be
The those that were become like me”


And with those words the specter said
We sat in silence; still and dead
For hours, till I crept to bed
To put my thoughts to sleep.

A ghost walks my halls…
He calls, but I can’t hear him
But I know he calls for me.
I smile and let him be.
3.7.12
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November 10, 2013
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