Ghosts

Down that noisy walkway, there it was,
Jet black dark hair abound, more true than false.
Hollow eyesockets, a pale white dress,
Speaking in words dripped with distress.

Hand outreached, whisper it did,
Beckoning, coaxing, like I was a kid.
A faint impression of a smile curled,
Helpless, yet fascinated, head in a whirl.
 
Down the spine the chills went,
Rapid flushes of blood the heart sent.
Throat dry, voice unsteady,
To stare death’s messenger in the eye, I was not ready.

Coarse fingers wrapped around mine,
I hesitate, like on my debut crime,
Cold, clammy, yet, oddly welcoming,
Bizarrely, I wished feverishly for no ending.

Closer the pale face drew,
More defenseless I grew.
Eyes closed, hoping for it to end quickly,
In that crazy moment, I welcomed the ghost’s embrace happily.

Then it was gone, like a leaf in the wind,
The world swam back to what it should be.
The apparition disappeared, with perhaps a slight trace of a cryptic whisper,
Leaving me alive, like a diamond that has lost its lustre.

Return it will, to haunt me it shall always,
For only I can sense its being, its purpose, the games on my mind it plays.
When my own personal ghost finally claims me,
A smiling body without a soul, his end was, said she.

Ng Zhao Yang
12.56 a.m. 23/7/2004
To my ghost. Please stop haunting me.