Haunted

Dead men linger �round your window
most nights
as you lie in bed, sleeping.

Unaware of the dead,
you divide the dark between dreams and oblivion.
You never hear them creeping.

Once, flickering into consciousness,
you mistook a pale face for the moon.

When morning comes they wander
into bar rooms, alleys,
the bushes beside the freeway.

They mingle and hide as best they can,
haunted by your sleeping face
all through the burning day.

Edit: Minutes after posting the above poem I found this link on the Blogger homepage:

Jeannie's Ghost Diary

Have you ever wondered what it's like to live in a real haunted house? I live in one and keep a diary of the strange happenings in my house.

Spooky, huh?