Ghost

I am a ghost of myself.
Of the child who used to play
until the sun splotched red on the horizan
and the night poked peepholes to heaven.
Of the little girl
Who's heart was gold yet thin as paper
Who's every word WAS SPOKEN LIKE A SHOUT.
And who's curiousity was pure, untainted, and holy.
Of the darling angel
Who charmed her way through grade school
Who's Candy-Oxygen consumation ratio was 1:1
And who's greatest gift to the world was her words.
Of the gifted dear
Who mother adored and father smiled down at
Who's closet was a wall of PINK
And who's mirrors told her who she was.
I am a ghost.
I am a faded being
Faded into late night whiskey and tears and sins
and meaningless life and wasted potentiom
into a graveyard of dreams
and a twisted reality.
So when I awake in the arms of God
when I am old and frail.
And he asks me how I got there,
He might let the Little Girl in,
and leave the Ghosts to haunt the doorway.