Lingering Ghost

windowstorm

The window,
Fragile,
Thin pane of glass,
Mist curtained,
And trembling,
Stands between her
And the ghost
Who nightly rises
From a shallow grave,
A pit
Cut into her heart.

Pity,
A soft sadness that weighs her soul.
She knows it’s a monster,
But refuses to let go.
It’s the only thing she has,
To prove
She isn’t as mad,
As those who buried him,
In the ruins of the broken home,
Where she once stayed;
In that awful house
Where bombs and children played.

She can’t,
She won’t,
She’ll never look away.
Nor shut down its voice.
Where on white noise
Whispers the pain
Of past sins,
Regret,
And so much guilt.

A Ghost,
Which lingers,
In the settling dark.
And until she turns the light on,
He’ll forever break her heart.

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About Z.

Poetic pipe and cigar enthusiast rifling through the haunted memories of a not so distant past while openly wrestling with faith and God. A rambling writer with the misguided notion that he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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