Homeless Ghosts
I spit out burned yesterdays,
homeless ghosts of my solitude,
hovering above in damnation of doubt.
Grey rotations of pain wait silently,
your white raiment colored
with my virgin spilled blood,
a soulless, endless creation
floating just out of reach
in the light of waylaid darkness,
hanging by swaying daisy chains
jumping off at the next flower.
Thick soup memory hides your fog
as tilted haloes resurrect
deception crawling on all fours,
sliding into macabre waltz.
I imagine the tiptoe patter
of your naked feet leaving,
my core frozen by cold absence
ghostly remnants of your misty eyes
cauterize my soul, leaving it barren
while I kiss your translucent smile
GOODBYE.
Ghosts
"It's time to sort your things" my eldest brother whispered but I did not gave him any indication that I've heard him. Here I am in our garage that was transformed to be our studio sitting on its dusty ground.
I think he knows me better "just get whatever you want to bring you can go back here if you want" he pressed.
How could I?
How could I bring the things from here when I would only remember him. That's exactly what I want to forget him.
To forget his voice, his scent, his smile, the sound of his laugh.
No I don't want to forget him at all.
He's gone, that wouldn't change.
That's what I want to forget
That he's not here anymore
His smile
So infectious, it can light my darkest day
His laughter as infectious as his smiles it can make you join him.
His scent it's what I'm looking for
His perfume is not enough to imitate his scent it's just not enough.
His voice so deep that I want to drown in to it. I'm gonna miss those.
My brothers would miss him
He's like the fourth brother to them
Closing this place, locking it would equally hurt us.
I know
I know it's irrational to act like this.
I don't wanna cry
He won't like this
We're closing this
This chapter of my life with him
Here in this place where we bonded most.
Here is the place where the ghost will always lurk
The ghost of our smile
Our laughter, our unspoken agreement
Our secrets our bond
This is the ghost I won't run from
I won't run to either.
Here will be the place of the ghost of my precious memories with him, my precious friend would be staying
The place where I can visit whenever I want to see this ghost.
Ghosts
I learned I loved Summer after it left.
I fell for the curve of her pretty lips
Her honey-brown eyes, the sway of her hips.
But Winter's swift coming leaves me bereft.
Still, I'm haunted by images of deft
Piano-playing fingers. Music trips
By, over and over, and sweet sound grips
My mind. She owns my soul, a tiny theft.
I wish those ancient warm and sunny days
Could stop shining bruising rays on my heart.
I know she has gone for the final time.
So leave this old empty tree it's malaise
As I barely exist, so far apart
from her, my ghost, trapped in the Wintertime.
South and Past of Atlanta
A specter arises from ancient sheets, dusted,
with tar drenched day dreams of Georgia roads,
and twisted magnolia trees,
growing jagged tin flowers,
and look at the nightmares,
quietly emerging,
and all that appears,
to haunt the lady of the house,
five generations and a lifetime ago,
for refusing to protect,
the secondary mistress of the plantation.
Instead,
she folded the silver-stained sheets,
and wrapped the little sin in them,
and when she turned to face the mother,
her eyes turned dark,
a reflection of the dark skin before her,
and the horror was complete.
A sickly mewling thing,
smothered in cotton,
it killed them all,
one way or another,
and the mother, weak.
Miss Anne would have told you,
it,
was,
not,
hard,
at,
all.
And her great-great-grandchild was puzzled,
as she searched in the house that survived Sherman's march,
when she opened the rosewood chest,
that was locked so tightly,
all the way from glory days,
to find a bundle of rags,
and as she picked it up,
with both hands,
incautious,
small bones fell to the ground,
and she wondered how a mouse got in there,
when the skull dropped.
(She remained nameless)
