I'm haunted by the ghost
that drains my offered well.
For I've become a host
to what I wouldn't tell.
What lingered on my tongue,
and perched upon its tip,
when words, still fresh and young,
missed every chance to slip.
And now, I feel them float
in tune with every brush
they tickle at my throat,
persisting in the hush.
Inside my veins, they stream;
the echo marks their travel.
They gather at each seam
to tug my slow unravel.
To them, I'm firmly bound,
a well that won't run dry.
Though words may not resound,
their truths will never die.
And though I fail to give
a voice to the unsaid,
if held, they'll always live;
made heard inside my head.
I'll be a haunted host
until my final day.
Then I'll become the ghost
of words I didn't say.
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