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Most mornings.
oOo
I forgot myself this morning
And woke in that old hazy home
Where ghosts marched
Atop the mares of old;
Eyes like fire saw right through me,
Here in this house of smoke
And mirrors.
Try as I might to remember
only your apparition remains
A kindly smile
A warm embrace
Painted by a master thief
To bluff life into these masterpieces
Of once-living imitations.
Even the ghosts are but reflections
Not of what once was, but
Of a time I wished -
A time I miss
Or missed -
Could have been
For all the seeming of kindness with your sweets and sweet words,
Where you once sat I see pearls
And bones.
Ought I find a shovel and put this all to rest?
But I am no gravedigger,
And shovels are not my style;
It is easier to play at archaeology
And delve into this rotting home
Where thieves have plundered what goods may have been,
And what's sweet has turned to salt.
Here rests the sins of deep reflection.
No wonder I forgot,
When every venture into the night leads to this one quarry
Of broken affection
Counterfeit and sold at half price
I couldn't tell who made a profit.
Now,
Once more, I sit at the precipice and wait in the haze,
For that brilliant moment when even I believe
That all is well,
Where the ghosts are my family
And I am content.
When next I wake,
I might become a thief too
And steal a mare to flee
Deep into that dark and wispy morning
In search of
A shovel,
That I might again play pretend,
Though like games do
They come to an end.
When they are over, I am left only with the bitter taste
Of false compassion.
And no matter how I twist and turn the tales of my adventures
In these old ancestral ruins,
The words always fall off the lines
Into the smoke and mirrors.
They become
Another painting -
Another forgery
- and for better or worse
I can't notice that I'm gone.
In the haze of my own morning,
Dawn is but a dying ember,
And I don't believe in ghosts.
oOo
Category Poetry / All
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File Size 14.5 kB
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