How can you live

with the fact

a child died

for your cartoon pleasure?

You did him no favours

taming him,

accustoming him

to humans.

Oh yes,

he is a friendly ghost,

and you may count that as

an accomplishment,

but what does it mean?

He craves companions,

he desires contact,

he is less without you.

He is your summer novelty,

your holiday hobby.

Better you had perfected

a coin flourish,

or studied German grammar.

Instead you made a freak.

A bird that cannot fly north for the winter,

a dingo habituated to camp garbage cans,

a politician kissing babies in retirement.

The life of the ghost is meant to be harsh.

It is a fierce path, not lightly chosen.

Yet here we have this bobble head,

trapped in his haunt,

unable to seek that which he desires,

waiting like a puppy dog for his victims.

We all avoid the olde manor now,

his tricks have worn thin

and eagerness is uncool.

It is for the best.

The living are butterflies,

colourful, vibrant, but

good for a season at most.

We move away, we die.

What you have made remains,

keening.

Are you pleased with yourself?