Ghosts
A 130 words poem about a very specific problem in life.

A gathering of ephemeral presences.
Disembodied voices echoing events of distant lives.
A myth in daylight. A fireside tale.
But their nature comes about;
In the lonely hours. In the darkest nights.
The ghastly truth rears its ugly head.
And then you know;
Cold comfort has no worth.
Once you see it it will never fade.
In your friends, in your family.
Ephemeral presences. Echoes of distant lives.
You are all alone.
Mind the rituals. Hide your soul.
Don’t let them know.
Don’t let it out.
Shut up and walk.
Quiet, friendly, normal.
You are the only one.
Come hell or high water,
And they will come,
It’s you.
It’s always you.
Only you.
In the lonely hours. In the darkest nights.
You will know.
Cold comfort has no worth.
About the Creator
The West Wing Archives
From the west wing of a mind palace—a chronicle of words in motion, where poetry and stories take shape in the quiet pursuit of craft and meaning.


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