Sometimes I wonder,
Should I wander?
Should I leave this world,
Should I become a ghost of my being?
Then I remember,
I already am a ghost.
My memories and feelings are existing too much
grab my ankles and hold me back
like a plastic bag catching my shin in the wind.
The slight tug and pull draws my attention to you.
I have yet to know what you wanted,
and maybe I wouldn’t feel so haunted
if you would meet me once again.
He lives in a cold and empty house
Where lightbulbs hang from silver chains
And lonely ghosts live within
The cracking, creaking wooden walls
He leaves out his favorite books for them
And listens to footsteps beneath the floorboards
He plays piano,
a reclusive recital for empty rooms
And they keep each other's soft-spoken secrets
Where did you go to, Doris Stokes?
Do you still talk to ghosts?
Doris is now a ghost, folks,
Did she just want to get on the telly?
Did the ghosts ever get on her nelly?
Or was she telepathic,
Or only telepathetic?
So, who now talks to ghosts,
Or erstwhile Doris Stokes?