A quick redraft

Here's a quick redraft of the poem from earlier. No solid title as of yet, but for now I'm calling it Ghost, or Ghost Story:

I’ve heard of a ghost,
a billowing curtain or a fluttering
bed sheet, whispering across the floor
to grab people’s hearts, stop
their rhythmic breath, arrested
in a state of explosive apathy; a collapse
into the feathered mattress,
ice-lids closing with a painful crack
and salt resealing the eyes into darkness.

Is he a courier of dreams, or simply our legend?
A malevolent gas-form emerging
from the infinitely hungry black hole, leaving the body
to roam, the mind to
scatter and melt into disuse, ceaseless habit
creating a layer of grime embedded into flesh.

A fleece blanket to bring you back to life,
candlelight displaced by the polished moon,
when he returns with a secret,
thrusting into your chest to start the warm trickle
of blood into your throat, eyeballs open
again to the dark walls
and the sun starting the daily round.