There are ghosts in my bedroom from memories past,
Things I never mention, from moments that never last.

Ghosts of plenty, for which I can't stand—
In here, they wander and brush past my hand.

Ghosts so many, with no room to breathe,
And so many memories, too many to grieve.

They will tell no one of the things I've done,
Or how they'd end up here, with nowhere to run.

Forever connected from paths that crossed,
They'll never rest peacefully—a rite they've lost.

Someday, all the world will know my role in this place,
When I take into the afterlife the ghosts who keep me company—
That death has a face.