Most people don't realize that ghosts can't be seen
They really aren't a specter a being, or the voice to a feeling;
Not the voice, but the feeling itself.

And these ghosts do haunt:
They come out in the words of the legend,
In the ink of iconography of the spirit,

And the etching of the acid soaked lithograph.
Sometimes they come as the rattling of a chain
Unlocking the gate to an old mansion,
Or under sheets with eye-hole stains
That cover furniture once alive with use,
Or even in the particles of dust that lie dormant
Until a curious new mind comes and kicks it up
With a seance, to have their heart aflutter in candlelight

And try to peak behind the chains
And underneath the dust and sheets
To try to see what's on the other side.