A ghost that lingers
as if it were forgotten.
A cobwebbed memory.
A heart feigned rotten.
Did she Love me?
Or could she even tell
that forcing it to hibernate
has been a bitter hell?
Maybe as it slumbered
it contorted askew with pain,
Freeing forth from a coma
never to be the same.
Now here I sit
at four this lonesome mourning
wondering if I've overlooked
any sort of warning.
Maybe then I'd smile
without the aid of a mask,
maybe then I wouldn't think
this present should resurrect the past.
