stand at my side and lean on my chair.
―Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Own Ghost
Was full of thunder—
Grumbling and rumbling,
I didn’t expect
To see a rebus
By my door…
An enigma,
With a nameless face
Who didn’t
Expect to see me either
Vainly pacing the floor—
Distraught, and
Gloomy
As a secret sea—
That's me:
Fraught
With vast discrepancies…
Motives hidden
From myself—
Opaque, blurry
Elusive
As northern lights
But not scary
Merely conflicted
As this presence.
And to what purpose
You might ask:
Well, I’m haunted,
More than any rainy phantom.
It’s the hazard
Of a writer
Occupying
A house of secrets—
Waking at midnight,
Sleeping at dawn.
I don’t deny it
But accept my lot...
I struggle with demons
That can’t be recalled—
Clouded by feelings
That can’t be resolved.