Ghost Beneath My Skin

...constant companion...

Somehow, when facing to the wind,

I sense the ghost beneath my skin.

A gnawing, shapeless entity emboldened to break free.

What would become of me, if I, at length, gave in

To the ghost beneath my skin?

 

Sometimes, when cast upon the sea,

My ghostly other sails with me.

Indeed, I’m grateful it lies near to abrogate my fear.

My soul is much too dear, and is nourished from within

By the ghost beneath my skin.

 

Someday, when figments of a dream

From my subconscious outward stream,

Inspiring wanderlust or chance to partake of romance,

I won’t so much as dance without the timely cutting-in

Of the ghost beneath my skin.

 

Why, then, must it vex me so

When I have shown it all I know?

Do I not hearken freedom’s ring, and to my spirit, likewise, sing?

I shan’t surrender life and limb, although my senses spin,

To the ghost beneath my skin.

 

Yes, I’ll rage against the dying light. To do less would be sin.

I'll ne’er bequeath a single wreath to the ghost beneath my skin.