adventures in dysthymia

Friday, December 14, 2012

The Autobiography of a Ghost, a poem

The Autobiography of a Ghost

Even the night has her ways, though she
be nothing more than absence of day.
She talks with Death in his empty, cold rooms,
conversing of yesterday, which no longer is.

There are worse things than not being.
A vapor of the past, a once-was,
a might-have, can invent its believers
and the flitting bats have led me here,

where I lost all the stars. They rimed
my window once, sighing to the night.
Wind has taken them and I
follow, in time, follow them nowhere.

What never was can haunt as well
as all that has passed the gray
hallways of your heart. Let
every ghost hold to its own story.

Even the night knows the way. She passes
by my windows and the stars must follow.
I will too, in time. I will too
for there worse things than not being.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

Jotted down on scrap paper, the way I used to write poetry (and everything else). It's been a while since I've done that but it still seems to work just as well as sitting at a computer. This is quite first-draftish, of course, the work of an evening.

Post a Comment