The ghosts
Gone before time
Walking alone
Without homes to stay
The Gate can't open
They will live as outcasts
Scavenging as a way of living
Gone by mistakes or killed
Some by their own hands
The reality bites into their minds
They couldn't stomach it
They hang or drown or fly
The ghosts
Sometimes we see
The images seeking way
Only praying or offering
Can appease their sad souls
Walking alone finding homes
The ghosts in this world
The dogs will see them often
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