The ghost
I’m haunted by
Is the one I’ve created
Myself, alone,
Singlehandedly,
Without intension
Or foresight,
Without the slightest foundation
To fright.
The ghost
I’m haunted by-
Lurking but a fraction away
From a fingers touch,
Like the mind numbing
Manipulation
Of a menacing muscle
Convulsively contracting,
That lingers
Amid a thousand other
Consciously thought out,
Relatively reasonably
Fears-
Is that one
That chills the most
Being from my own hand
Uniquely and ubiquitously
Carved in slivers
Of tempered steel.
The ghost
That haunts me
From Winter’s Fall
To Summers end
Is not
The nocturnal nuisance
Of nightmares,
Nor the shape shifter
Behind the sheet-
Shivering in shadows,
Nor the mythical entity
Or pulsating phantom
Of plasmic slime.
The ghost
That haunts me
In waking breath
And sleeping dream,
That resides on the edge
Of my happiness
And motivates the core
Of my sadness,
Is none other than I,
Myself
Or rather the self
I must become,
But the fear,
In truth,
Is what happens
If
I fall forgotten
Before begun.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly