Copyright 2017, Guy Smith
She flinches when anyone touches, still afraid to tells the cops
And hides behind closed curtains, ‘cause memories of that night won’t stop
While on the street corner he sits, rusted wheelchair, tin cup in hand
Drinking down thoughts of shelling, and the leg he left in Afghanistan
The wife and husband, they no longer talk about it, both have forgotten how to pray
Choking back the tears every time they think about their daughter’s tiny grave
And they’re all just ignoring the ghosts down in their bones
A tired man sits alone in a corner, his nursing home gray and cold
With others abandoned by their children, they’re all just struggling to be old
She worries where life may go, orphaned young and no kin that cared
Heading off in the back of a foster’s car, alone and completely scared
They sit at the bar, maybe they glance, yet they still sit far apart
Cheated before, neither can afford the cost of another broken heart
And they’re all just a little crippled by the ghosts in their bones
We collect and we keep them, and bury them deep
Wear our brave faces in public, and try not to weep
While life heaps on more, we ache, and we groan
Fighting to keep the ghosts buried in our bones
They left bits of their soul scattered along the shoulder of life’s road
Taking life’s punches, entombing fears, all trying not to carry that load
The boy who can’t face a priest, and who walks away from God
Or the girl who can’t face her father, because he made childhood nasty and hard
They rattle within even those, even those without sin, to deal with on our own
Getting by but always fearing the ghosts down in their bones
And we’re all just a little haunted by ghosts in our bones
