poetry, Syllable Tapestries


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

They speak so often of the dead,
drowned souls,
left on armchairs and car seats,
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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s