Haunted

I've a sixth sense for the ghosts of my past; they regularly come back and haunt me.
I can feel their approach in my skin and my bones, their presence in the collapse of my heart.
I hear their voices carried on phantom winds, probing their way to my ear.
I see the eyes of specters returning each glance.
They fly on the wings of memories and entrap me in chains of fear.
I can say I don't believe in ghosts, but that won't do much good.
He's just as real as me.

This poem is about: 
Me

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