False Idol

The ghost of who you once were haunts
The bright recesses of my memory
Hung like bare light bulbs in a well-swept attic
Tended to and frequented often
Though I do not take my meals there
Though I do not shower there
Though I do not work there
There is living and there is dreaming
And in that space I am only a creature of the mind
Spinning fables into golden memories
To crown upon your brow in adoration