This ghost of me rages behind the front door, waits in the spaces between failure and the cost, breaches the chasm of decades fulfilled and creeps behind my weary shoulder.
This ghost of me drags its feet, delays the party train and relegates me without permission.
Who do you think you are, really?
Who are you going to scare?
This ghost of me thinks it owns this day, haunts my set mind and tries to agitate. I’m not going to play your joy draining games.
This ghost of me reminds us of graces lost and the mud at the bottom of the dene in which I’m stuck.
Who do you think you are though, really?My graces are richer today than ever before. I find peace in the places you roam, this deal is not done, and whom do I fear?
Not the ghost of me.
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