Dear ghost,
I am ashamed. Mortified that it has to be me.
I, it is I. I, who should like something like this.
This dramatic display that inscribe a play in me. Part of something grand. So grand that it should awe every tiny existence.
Too arrogant to wallow in despair. Too incriminating to reach the stars.
Should you wish for something, wish for a will.
In the end, I stand as I was made. From what mold did you rise from.
What is it that makes you so afraid. Whom should you beg for.
Forgiveness, perhaps, that's what I truly want but condemn as I amend no more but break more.
Yours truly.