You haunt my dreams. You haunt my waking hours.

You haunt my life. Each corner turned reveals

A memory floating phantom. Ghosts of times

Of joy assault my heart and sing a dirge

That shatters all my restless nights and sours

Each day’s small bits of light. This sadness squeals

And warps my soul from true. That vision slimes

Both who and what we were beneath its surge.

This blasphemy will kill the work our souls

Were built to yield. So sleep, my dearest love,

And give me rest from memory’s ghosts. The coals

Will blossom, rise again and fly—twin doves

Whose souls still hear the ringing, dancing spheres,

And know their light and love when it appears.

–Harry Proudfoot