Hiders Under The Pillow

I know people, not many, who do seem to for reasons known to them, dear to them, like to hide. They have unlisted numbers with the phone company, they wear scarves, sunglasses, they walk in the shadow of buildings and trees, they talk softly, they answer their calls by saying HELLO, hesitatingly, they drive neutral coloured cars, and they like to be UNSEEN at poemhunter. And elsewhere. But then, when the opportunity, once in a lifetime perhaps, arises where they could stand, sit, crouch, dance on the stage, any stage anywhere, they shed like dogs who are afflicted with acrodermatitis egotistica. Beware! Limelight, please! I have nothing, really nothing to hide. It's just that the bogeymen and their cousins are always after me. Just me. Why? I hear voices, lots of, and mean ones, vicious ones, on that balcony and in that pool, from across the street, from the spires of the basilika, from the chimneys of all of the hot and ugly crematoria. They talk, they whisper and they sing about me, not to me, not at me, not with me, but about me. Mean songs they are, songs of oppression, of malice and such, and they never ever not in this lifetime, or in the past, such historic proof, stop, tone down or, if they could, fly away. I hide because I have something, a little bit of sunshine perhaps, or sugar plums, or the Queen's secrets, or Oppenheimer's papers. To hide and to preserve. Believe you me, it is as I say, there are, without a doubt, and inevitably so, ghosts, who will, if you do let them and their tentacles, and all of their razzamatazz, come into yours and mine, it will surely be our undoing, and for all it matters, in the end, by our hands, hesitating, yes but it must be will be as God will bless, your beginning. Thank us not now. But hide as we do. Be invisible or they will, in the end of ends, get you. Too.