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Sep 2015
A wailing ghost has found you.
Foolishy, you hoped to be free.
But that is how it plays with you.
A cat and mouse game, you see.

However did you get as far
In the frosty, wintry night
Without knowing your ache would return?
How could you think you'd be alright?

The haint is on your back,
And chillishly shrilling in your ear.
Maybe you did not bury your deeds deep enough.
Perhaps that is why you fear.

The awesome hatred is poured into your cup.
A spectral accusation never is one in vain
If it closely resembles the truth.
The guilty perish, for crimes that are never named.
The beginning of fall, and the forward momentum toward my favorite holiday, have begun.
Cecil Miller
Written by
Cecil Miller  Louisiana
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