This Lost Ghost.

He didn’t remember a thing,
Arising up, groggy and alone, in an unknown place,
Aching in the emptiness where his memories should be.
He knew not his name, or even his face.

Flashes of red, he tries to remember,
But he can’t quite reach, the blurry images fade.
Shock runs through him as he looks to his hand,
To see the sharp edge, of a bloodied blade.

I’m not a killer, that’s not me,
But maybe he was.
I don’t know anymore,
Whoever he was.

Lost and afraid, he panted and sweated.
Moving, staggering out into the street,
Somehow he knew where to go, he felt it pulse,
He heard the dying heartbeat underneath the concrete.

He found the patch of upturned earth,
The place where the grass no longer grew.
To the outskirts of town he unconsciously walked,
Still struggling to remember, if only he knew.

He dug bare handed into the dirt,
Unknown force, pulling him through the ground,
His arms ached and his fingers bled,
But still he went, down and down.

Flesh hit stone, he found a box,
Hidden in the earth, a tomb of rock.
Lowering his face through the lid,
He stared in shock.

A name and face he recognized,
Sleeping in the earth,
Buried with the knife he used,
The one which gave this ghost birth.