Of what I bear and host
When deep in slumber in my chair,
Living phantoms, visit me there.
They race across my visions plain,
Like cattle through a field of grain.
They trample me to blades of grief.
They rob me of my sleeps relief.
They shred my thoughts of honest mourn,
Gracing times of once and gone.
Bovine ferocity, they run in line,
Ravage the peace that I would mine.
Raising dust like deeds recast,
As if, they could retrieve the past.
Nor can I stop their repertory,
Their flamboyant, oratory.
Each phantom spits coercing doubt,
In balls of fire flaring out.
I damn the ghosts their blatancy,
Their malicious effigy,
I tire of the gruesome jest
And tire of their loathsome quest.
What's gone is gone can't be redone.
I can't undo what I have done.