There is a ghost
haunting my steps.
A phantom glimmering
of a life lived well.
Possibility's wraith,
of mistakes not made,
of promises that were kept,
of betrayals not felt.
The spectre of lost hope
that cries of my despair,
born of disillusionment,
of stillborn dreams.
Opportunities squandered
and left abandoned,
only mirages casting shadows
of Technicolor holographic dreams
I am left in the ruins,
knowing only the bitterness
of unalloyed Sorrow,
sweetened by the gall
of what might have been.
(c) Tortured Cyclone 2018
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