The night is full of ghosts, but not
The kind that you can see;
It is the sound of your regrets,
The ghosts of memory

The sounds of laughter, once, that your
Desire turned to tears;
The crying that turned angry, as
You dirtied with the years

And sullied everything, with all
Your selfishness and pride;
You close and lock the doors, but you
Cannot keep them outside

For everything you’ve ever done
Is there on your account:
And though asserting innocence,
There’s really no amount

Of justifying you can do,
When you are faced with ghosts
Who know the truth about you, and
See through your idle boasts

And straight to who you really are,
Alone there, with your shame:
There’s no one left to argue with,
And one left
To blame