By Ryder Bott
Living with the ghosts staring up
From creased, sepia snapshots
Is hard to navigate,
When life consists of the same each day.
Outside, streetlights give off beams,
Courtesy of the airborne remnants
Of nature’s cleansing rituals,
Obscuring and lighting up the world at once.
And in the mirror is a man
Who looks much older than he is.
The mileage shows more each day,
But the milestones have all been removed.
And the plans on the calendar
Get derailed like the scene
Of Poirot’s most famous case,
Revealing all to those who can see it.
The greatest treasures are found
In mundane activities taken for granted.
Their value a mystery,
Until they are beyond reach.
Fragments of memories of years past
Hold unfulfilled promises that are recalled,
Before they are scoffed at and cast aside,
Delegated to the annals of disappointments.
And the fire in the hand
Threatens to consume the oxygen in the room,
Leaving the bright candles to be remembered
As the cause of a self-destructive inferno.
All of this, a hurricane
Confined within the head
Of one confined to bed,
Who hears the ghosts speaking at night.