Myrtle

A poem I wrote a while back, about Moaning Myrtle, a Harry Potter character who gets no respect.

You spend your days
Lurking in that wretched place--
The place where you died;
The place where you hide
And watch the living
Pass you by
They do not speak;
They only shriek
And laugh
At you
And your ugly demise.

And I should think
That they should be
Ashamed
To mock you--
To mock the dead,
So cold,
Their icy stares,
So sharp,
Their spiteful taunts;
They leave you all alone
To sulk
And cry
And wonder why.

If I could be a ghost
I'd be an even more
Unpleasant host
Than you, my dear;
I'd make them run in fear,
So they could
Suffer
Like they made you do,
So they would
Run
Like they made you do,
And they would leave me be.

But I suppose 'twould be lonely
To wait eternity
In solitude, no company
But we cannot choose
What happens to us,
And though
Life is what we make it,
The dead
Are doomed to lose.