Wednesday, 9 December 2015
The Ghost in The Quiet
The work of quiet hours
Stretches on before me.
I, who could not keep you.
Who could not hold a ghost.
All smoke and mirrors.
All bare branches that claw and pull.
Drag me back to the quiet hours
Where I will be dull and sit in the dark
And stare at my own reflection
On the frosty window pane
And hear the clatter inside my head
And know it is a kind of Hell
That there is no quiet here.
That you are a spirit by my side.
Who won't let me rest.
Who won't let me alone in my quiet hours.