Sunday, June 20, 2010


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.

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