Ghost

 

There is an uneasy silence

Within the four walls that need

A touch of paint,

    There is a hope,

A faint offering of freedoms

To consider the rest of life

Without abnormalities of thinking

While hearing voices,

Voices that are at present;

Quelled awhile,

 

     For a time now

They have eased in intensity,

They are there I hear them above

The creaking house often enough,

But they are no longer shouting

Voluminous sounds of detriment,

 

     This house needs

Refurbishing its yield,

     And

This life needs to get out and explore

What is left,

But until I’m sure

I am bereft of all intrusions,

I cannot leave and be

Within the world I miss,

The world I travelled as

Soldier for the betterment of

Others and ah,

There it is again,

Teasing, calling all my

Altruistic tendencies,

Nurturing a denial

Of the positive I am,

And I guess,

The world will

‘Crack on’ without

The wanderings of this man

And so,

Maybe when the spring

Arrives,

     I’ll take the paint-brush

To the walls

‘They’ call a home,

And freshen up

The prison until

The voices leave my soul alone,

 

One life,

One life with

A multitude of sufferings,

The madness making sure

I think of nothing but the harm

     And,

I am painting

Myself the colour of

The walls just to be

Concealed from prying eyes,

     And if I walk upon

The Earth again,

The Earth I once loved,

I hope I be the translucent

Figure of a ghost

Because,

     I not want

For anyone to know

Or see the scars.

 

Michael J Waite 22^nd April 2013.