Ghosts make life hardly living, and it’s not easy, hardly living,
Life is hard, like living hardly, inside my home.
Ghost sit, stand, run, and roam inside my home, inside my head, inside my bed.
Always here, always there like a hollow and a soulless friend.
No heart to wish me well and send me on my way;
No way to send me and well wish me.
Only they find me and bind me in their presence where life is not,
And there I must to think of whence they came,
To think of whence they’ll go
And leave me in peace, alone.