The ghosts of my past follow me around.
Everywhere I go I see them moving in the shadows,
In the dimming of the sun.
What have I wrought?
A miasma of blackness, sickness and pain,
These randoms thoughts that creep and seep,
Pull me close, whisper abhorrent secrets to keep
Sealed inside a brittle mind
Come, see, the cracks are beginning to show.
