Lurking behind every door are ghosts
from a shadowy past,
eager to be translated
to a dubious present.
Impregnated in genes
are the memories of these ghosts,
split second DNA, with desire housing
the delicate substance quoting life.
Stupid am I to allow
lurking in my fresh Being
to suck life out of my present.
But power filled, even to think
that I could release their tenacious hold
from a life unfulfilled
and requiring recompense.
Helplessness rages simultaneously,
pleading a judicious balance
to satisfy life's imbalances,
I cannot do it.