On Knowing A Weary Ghost

I knew a man alone within deep thought
Who sat before a sheet of paper white
Remaining there beyond the doors he sought
To lock himself away within the night

With pen in hand he wrote of nothing good
His tears were all he needed to express
How no one in his life had understood

The way he thought himself as more than less

I think of him from time to time and then
Remind myself about that darkened place
I'll never be that man, no, not again
But sometimes in my words he shows his face

That man is still to me a weary ghost
He traces through my poetry at most