The Ghosts I Tote

I’m not sure how cautiously I can tread.  
I’ve only just arisen as the de facto  
head of state-sanctioned cognitive dissonance.  
Behold the ghosts I tote  
with less-than-enthusiasm  
through the bleak euphoria of midwinter!  
Frazzled phantoms composed of rose.  
A bit on the nose,  
but I’ve been accused of worse.  
On the course laid bare before me,  
I can find no room for divagation.  
Only taut familiarity, drumming  
emaciated fingers on each careful twist and turn.  
Nostalgia’s withering embrace.  

-r. miller

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