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.