Crouched in the comfort of a fetal position,
Seeking, once more, the warmth of the womb,
Huddled in silence, away from conversation,
Ignorant to any calamitous gloom,
I turn my back on the ghosts I fear to face,
And bid they close the door as they leave the room.
Did you know that memories are such vengeful sprites?
The feed of regret and drink of remorse,
They keep coming back with torment in mind,
And a bouquet of rotting vegetative corpse.
The flowers have withered, the ode lies unpenned,
Their romance having used all resource.
You can call me a coward, if it makes you feel good,
And if coward I am, then so must it be,
For that I can't face the pain when yesterday's news,
Means that sorrow is all that can comfort me,
With the putrid fragrance of a rotting bouquet,
And the ghost of a sprite for company.