The ghosts that haunt my dreams
speak in many languages, each
familiar, twisted deep inside me.
I cannot answer for they do not listen,
say they do not know me, know me well.
I want to sit, to talk with each in turn
but I have no voice they can hear
choked off by cruel Morpheus
who only releases his grip once
they have slipped away yet again.
So they speak in riddles and smile
and refuse to read my roiling mind.
Perhaps one day the words will come,
perhaps I will continue to wander
among them under the watchful eye
of a billion stars and the baleful
glare of an always jealous moon.