Pale shapes advancing from the midnight air,
Beckoning with misty fingers round my bed,
Bending your faded faces o'er my head,
I have no fear of ye! I seem to share
Your dim vitality -- mine's well-night fled.
I feel the human outlines melt away;
These thin, gray hands that lie on the damp sheet
Are almost vapory enough to meet
Yours in the grasp of fellowship. My hair
Seems turning into cloud. The quickening clay
That walls me in is cracking, and I strive
Towards ye through the breach. Am I alive?
Or are ye dead? All's vague -- a wide, gray sea.
Hark! the cock crows! Now, spirits, welcome me!
"The Ghosts" by Fitz-James O'Brien
Photographs by Michela Heim
I am trying to rid myself of ghosts.
Christmas time is working against me..