No headstone
Stands there.
But the ghosts still circle
Like vultures
Hungry to pick at the bleached remains
of emancipated days
I wasted dreaming.
Some memories linger,
Some reappear in pastel shades
when my mind is soft.
My glazed eyes gaze
Into a sheet metal puddle.
Silent ghosts,
from all my broken days,
Stare back.
A weeping Willow
Whispers secrets
As the wind whistles
through its leaves
In this ancient churchyard.
I lean back,
against a gravestone,
Which juts from the green grass
like a hobo’s tooth.
The ghosts that passed
Through my life left scars
On this haunted pallid face,
Lines scratched deep criss-cross
My wizened old pate,
skin loosening
around this old fool’s bones.
No magic
left in my fingertips,
no energy
in my smile.
Reflections made ugly,
Or beautiful,
by time.
The ghosts of old memories linger.
Stands there.
But the ghosts still circle
Like vultures
Hungry to pick at the bleached remains
of emancipated days
I wasted dreaming.
Some memories linger,
Some reappear in pastel shades
when my mind is soft.
My glazed eyes gaze
Into a sheet metal puddle.
Silent ghosts,
from all my broken days,
Stare back.
A weeping Willow
Whispers secrets
As the wind whistles
through its leaves
In this ancient churchyard.
I lean back,
against a gravestone,
Which juts from the green grass
like a hobo’s tooth.
The ghosts that passed
Through my life left scars
On this haunted pallid face,
Lines scratched deep criss-cross
My wizened old pate,
skin loosening
around this old fool’s bones.
No magic
left in my fingertips,
no energy
in my smile.
Reflections made ugly,
Or beautiful,
by time.
The ghosts of old memories linger.
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