Dylan’s Ghost



Dylan’s ghost lives at Grandma’s,

Downstairs, quiet, seldom seen.

At night Dylan lies within his magic ring

Of Thomas trains and legos.

The ghost watches from the stairwell

And needs no speech to murder sleep.


Describe the spirit?  The image twists, slips away.

No death’s head crone

Or rags or teeth or rattling sounds,

But something calling from the past.

Born in another house, dark and cold and broken,

Crouching behind a door,

In pain.


Who knows what’s real,

And to whom, and how manifest?

We wise Libras, anxious to rewrite the past, console:

“There are no ghosts”, “It’s a friendly ghost”,

Glancing at the darkness while we reassure.


For we know our own:

Alcohol, rejection, rage, abuse, neglect –

The hook is still caught in the bone; the pain endures.

And living with our ghosts we have forged a peace.

Now we can name them.


Dylan has no words yet

To flesh his phantom or to exorcise it.

How can we give him our voice, our years,

To help him speed the healing,

Or to even understand?

5 thoughts on “Dylan’s Ghost

  1. Steve Yankee July 29, 2018 at 11:14 pm Reply

    Nicely done, Michael!


  2. Sandra Clark July 30, 2018 at 2:16 am Reply

    A stunning piece of writing friend

    Liked by 1 person

    • mikedescamp August 1, 2018 at 1:04 am Reply

      Thank you! We definitely have to cross paths with you two one of these days. Ever consider coming to South Africa? We have great safaris on tap….


  3. Gary Hansen July 31, 2018 at 11:38 pm Reply

    Does he need words to heal? Or just a safe place to be?


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