Ghosts

The ghosts of the past are a terrible fate,

While the world snores on, you stay awake,

Haunted, ever possessed by memories of date,

Counting the hours for the day to take,

The agonies of follies, love and hate,

Like a steadfast reminder that makes you quake,

These untamed flashes never seem to abate,

All strivings that the mind does make,

To keep them away, hidden at any rate,

A momentary slip washes away to rake,

Reminisces awash, flooding through an open gate,

Threatening the sanctity of our mind to break,

They visit us all, either early or late,

The carefree demeanour presented outside is fake,

Helpless, we’re compelled to undertake a lifelong wait,

That the ghosts might disappear, for our very own sake.

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