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 )

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