The Haunting

There are rumours of haunted
houses and woods, buildings and groves
but it’s not quite true, not of places
We are the haunted, the bedeviled, the besieged
I’m walking my ghosts now
watching them watching me with
malice or compassion, spite or sadness
they speak in voices and tongues that
none can translate or hear
ghosts of past sins, and of future ones
seeking absolution I cannot give them
though my sacrifice is ready
as some burnt altar offering
I am no priest with redemption at hand
no shaman or seer with sacred visions
I have only this disquiet, this pallor of appalling
as if I were somehow more real
than them

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