My ghostly Mother, I me confess
I’ve been indecent, more or less.
Lapses of courage are always indecent.

You had a greyer time, in which was lent
The social way to lie. It was not meant
That you should say exactly what you miss.

It seems to me that I was always bent
Doing the things were safely social, meant
To block the questions are without redress.

But now I dread old fears that cannot press
Out into pleasure, where cowardice is rent.
My ghostly Mother. I do confess.

Lapses of courage most reveal our bent
The ways we will not say who tears our tent
The bear who rips and then demands a kiss.

But all you missed in decency I’m sent
To say should now be asked for, and the rent
In nature of our loss I now confess.

We are not silent, and the tears are less.
I tore myself our pleasure to express.
We social ghosts could now say what we meant.
The bear’s not there if we should strike our tent.

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