I feel a calm panic, <br />a sort of trapped fear, <br />driving particular small town streets <br />late at night. <br />No human footstep is heard, <br />no human heartbeat <br />pulses in the air, <br />no one forcibly takes breaths <br />tearing the captive air up inside them, <br />and throwing it back out again, depleted, <br />as only smoke <br />in the stiff, frosty miasma. <br />Yet I see figures <br />of people, of ghosts, <br />always large, dark men, <br />compsed of gruff grey <br />and stiff, boundless black. <br />Heavy figures, <br />ghosts turning corners <br />and roaming the streets. <br />I don't know <br />whether they are really there <br />or are just the mildew <br />left in my mind <br />from things that once were. <br />I am frequently told <br />that I need to get out of here. <br />Yet, I feel no emotion, <br />no fear of the shadows' <br />dire threat. <br />So I drive the streets slowly <br />and stop occasionally <br />to stand where it was possible <br />that I once stood, <br />alone on the streets <br />with my ghosts.<br /><br />Rebekah Gamble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghosts-27/
