The ghosts come out to meet me <br /> from their sleep. <br />Not as my parents <br /> do they watch the door, <br />but from each photo's frozen face <br /> they peep and haunt the habits <br /> I can wear no more. <br />They summon up the dead <br /> from letters found <br />and jab me <br /> with each name out of my past. <br /> Forgotten thoughts spring <br /> from each scent and sound <br /> to mock me <br /> for my dreams that didn’t last. <br />Yet in the dark, <br /> alone, <br />they make me start to wonder <br /> who and where and when I am <br />as formless faces <br /> that once held my heart <br /> beseech me <br /> now to join among the damned. <br />They are the beings <br /> that I used to be. <br />Each cannot yet forgive <br /> each change in me.<br /><br />Glen Martin Fitch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-go-home-2/
