There is ever a ghost in all my shadows;
Some cryptic, primordial entity
With scabbed-over skin scraped
Along the pavement of youth;
Mummified in bits of silk and remorse,
Cauterizing the visceral ebb of numb
And blanket of oblivious delirium
With ribbons and sinews of regret;
Some insipid spirit of the trite status quo
That rouses me from my daydreams;
A wraith for the reckless at heart
Eyes blind with filmy cataracts of loss,
Seeing only caution thrown to the wind,
And gathering back the bloodied pieces
With clawed and netted hands
To leave lamenting on my doorstep
Before strangling my dreams in their sleep.
There is ever a ghost in all my shadows
There is always doubt in every step.