Monday, September 13, 2010

Ghost Run



I have been down this gloomy road
before
The haunted house, its haunted
corridor
I have seen the ghosts float down the stairs Forever moaning
their despairs I have lived in the haunted house's bedrooms Chamber for me, for
the dead their tombs I have slept through attempts to spook me away But with
nowhere to go, I'm forced to stay Shadows and echoes from no living soul Created
by demons whom I have no control I might be the only one with a heartbeat But I am
not the only one here to great Poltergeists and phantoms, spectres and ghouls Of
deceased warriors, politicians and fools There are many apparitions living
here But as strange as it sounds it's me that they fear The dead come to play in
the midnight hour Turning on lights and running the shower Entering my bedroom
through the stone wall But these things do not frighten at all What frightens me,
is to be here alone For it's not just the ghosts that you can hear groan All I
want is someone's hand to hold So I'm not left alone with the ghosts growing
old~
Matthew Densley


I had a chance to run in the fog this morning……I’ve always cherished early morning runs. This wasn’t exactly early morning – I ran after the kids got on the bus. But all was still, peaceful, and quiet. And foggy. Ghostly. There is something about the fog—especially the autumn (or near autumn) fog that reminds me of Halloween.
Halloween has always been my favorite season not only because of the fall weather but because there are no expectations. No gifts. Nothing but candy if you wish to share. It is perfectly fine to decorate for Halloween in September because fall and Halloween are one and the same.
I love running by myself. Well, kind of by myself – I had Casper with me. He’s kind of like a ghost himself. Are ghosts real? Or just what we think or hope is real. Ghosts are memories, for me. I see and feel the ghost of my aunt all of the time. I’ve felt the ghost of my grandfather a few times but he hasn’t visited me in years. I run into the ghost of myself every so often. The me who dreamt of a farm, of spending hours quilting, of a fulfilling job, of someone to love me, of chrysanthemums and daisys and huge gardens overloaded with vegetables of all sorts.
Occasionally the ghost of me who wanted goats to milk visits – she was here last night. So sad. I wish she would stay.

Like a will-of-the-wisp, my ghostself flits away before I can snatch her.


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