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.