poetry, Syllable Tapestries

Isolated

When you don’t want to feel,
you dream about death
transmuting into a ghost.

They speak so often of the dead,
slowly,
drowned souls,
folded,
asleep,
left on armchairs and car seats,
stinky.
A breeze through the window.
Roll ‘em all down,
it’s not that bad.

The dead do not doubt,
in truth they do not speak.
Which is good.
I don’t want to hear it.

These flowers in the vase,
occupying the half-finished bathroom,
the living room, the bedroom,
are silent.

But ghosts,
they still have that belief
in the need to live as sensuous beings;
however isolated they are.

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