The Necromancy

A Tortured Poet’s Regret — No15

Photo by Jacob Mejicanos on Unsplash

oh, to raise the dead —
that’s what i do,
it feels like,
every time i talk
to my
lingering ghosts.

ghosts, you ask?
yes, i have so many —
enough to number
this hallway of my mind.

i do not call them
muses
because they were never
mine to claim at all.

lost loves,
the lot of them —
all the kinds i could never
embrace, no matter what i wanted.

ghosts —
oh, i’m haunted
every single day
i’ve had to live without them.

i’m wandering the moors
of my tortured mind —
and my ghosts walk behind me,
trailing my steps like they never did in life.

there was
the boy
with the infectious smile,
the winning laugh.