On a lonesome road
Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread
And having once turned round walks on
And turns no more his head
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread
Everyone has skeletons in the closet or under the bed. No matter how well one has covered one’s tracks, there lingers always the fear of discovery.
The memory of the misdeed or misdeeds arises like a fiend (note, a fiend is not friendly), haunting one’s path always, as expressed by Samuel Coleridge in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
