Our ghosts
left us here alone,
to roam through
the remote countryside
of solitude.
Destined to blink back tears,
to fear
the lump that chokes
deep in the throat,
as we are about to speak.
The one that makes
you stop dead on your feet,
and let the waves wash over
already sunken drowning eyes,
aware of our solemn silent hymns.
Sung to only ourselves,
or to withdrawn skies
Our ghosts.
They live on
in memory and words,
but they don't feel the hurt
recorded in the drip drop tears
their loss causes.
They don't feel the dawn chorus
waking you from a dream,
into a nightmare world,
Where it’s like looking
through a blurred screen,
from all of the pain within
or staring at a painting,
knowing that it
will never enlighten lost eyes.
Our ghosts follow us
but are they witness
to the things we do
or the trials we go through?
Do they still think?
Are they placing dreams
into our heads delicately
to help us face the day?
Do they pave the way
to help us find ways to stay?
Our ghosts.
Every single lost smile,
every tear in the universal sky,
every rose floating by
on a secluded lake.
Every shadow
that blinks beside the eye,
every stuttered streetlight,
every new insight we make,
every love,
every fight,
Everything we see
twisted through
a different prism of light.
Thanks for reading
Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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