wishaway

The wishing well leads to hell;
Often it was where I fell.
Believing in a benign fate,
I detected the malignancy too late.

Love has succumbed to the growth
Of tumorous memories, mutated oaths;
The garden where we sowed the seeds
Is withered, rotting- choked by weeds.

A thorn is piercing through my skin:
I guess I've learned to feel again.
Pain and sorrow follow me,
I know them both intimately.

No one else can see my ghosts,
Wandering with me, pale and lost.
This is the specter still haunting me:
The spirit of the child that I never got to be.