I saw the makings of a ghost
And perhaps what it meant
To fade. Among the living, they are all
Dying. Their days slipping into routine:
Urgency during most mornings
And the slowness evenings take
To fill the hunger lurking within.
The dark often cancels gray shades.
I heard them conversing with shadows,
Take their closest friends for strangers
And leave without a sound, untraced.
They insist on different visions
Existing only in memory
Studying their faces in the mirror
Gazing back now and then
Catching glimpses. The imprint
Of fingers, the strand of a hand.