They lie in wait in the silent dark deep.
Then into my thoughts they silently creep,
In my subconscious they play their games,
Digging up memories, igniting my flames,
They slide down my slides and swing on my swings,
And rumble and tumble through all of my things,
They are happy to share in my spurts of gladness,
But particularly productive in my fits of madness,
They sometimes can drive me to fits of rage,
Then magically appear as words on my page,
The ghosts inside me full of might,
Stealing the pages upon which I write.
© DiAnne Ebejer