Ghosts, vivid as any indelible memory,
Opaque characters complex as any pain.
Whispering phantoms of fancy and debate,
Debased to be displayed within me.
Fragments of former friends and foes
Haunting the pensive moments of my mind.
Frequently visiting my somber silences
To stimulate my passive passions.
Enticing my impulses to aggravation,
My bitter hates and petty joys,
And long past my solemn recompense
They goad me into fits of familiar disillusion.
The remembered and imagined coalesce
Into perfect torments for my indolence,
So whatever quiet moments I acquire
Inevitably fill with vexatious rants.
Leave me be, but never go too far,
As long as I need to fill these voids.
As much as I move on, you’re still my ghosts
And I need your stimulation to survive.
Maybe once I’ve passed along
From one sad form into the next,
I’ll fill the quiet with better voices
And forms that leave me better vexed.