Oh, these Ghosts that haunt me, nightly, tearing at my soul,
These screaming, wailing, moaning ghouls, my senses do appall.
My sleep is wrecked, and torn apart, my silence is undone,
And all I see are shadows, where the nightmares have begun.
Then come, oh come, and do your worst, I will not share your pain,
If I can't rest, then nor should you, bound up within your chain.
You shall not load your guilt on me; your terror is your own,
Though heavy weigh my sorrows, they weigh on me alone.
What dreadful crimes have you committed, to be treated thus?
And who gave you the freedom, now, to visit them on us?
Or are you just reflections of the way we all must end?
A mirror of the harvest reaped, is that what you portend?
So, in my sweat soaked sheets I lay, my Ghosts for company,
The Black Crow on my windowsill, waits patiently for me.
I do not seek redemption, or an Angel's sweetened breath,
I've courted Sin throughout my life, and take it to my Death.
Yet who has claims yo innocence, in thought, or word, or deed?
And who among us sin soaked wrecks, have souls that shall not bleed?
So when I go I'll join these Ghosts, on their eternal quest,
To burden others with their chain, and find eternal rest.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Ghosts by Owain Glyn )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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