A Ghost is Made

A past version of the self

phases in and out of you with the colder sun

of yesterday, the height of buildings.

It finished off at a milestone

and escaped in a breath.

When the time comes

there are two or three

as they merge together.

But for now, the sing-song in your voice

as you crack the binding

of an album

doesn't recognize itself

as it points to itself,

and you sometimes think

of places you'd lived

as ruins.

The ghost

crouches in your head

as it waits for a recount,

but all you have are moments.

You hang a cup on a rack to dry,

and your arm

wants to swing into a dance,

but it was the ghost;

it has gone on without you,

and your feet

aren't sure they're worthy

anymore.

You think of the times you danced

but they're already full of

mostly sky,

and stars,

are shades of a color now - electric wires

sinking into your nearsightedness,

telephone poles rising, the street

dragging the blue with it.

You try to squint and stare into the distance

as the train gets close,

but you remember the airhorn

as it sounds.

You hadn't heard it in so long,

and it vouches for you.

Author's Note

Friendly critique welcome.

Reviews

[Arundass TP]

Beautiful poem. Enjoyed reading

[emmajoygreen]

For me this is once upon a time Self catching up on now, all in fin phrasing and a subtle use of metaphor..

Your Ghost seems to be a harmless one but reminds what used to be simple but now tales a forethought and effort. Great quote,

'You hang a cup on a rack to dry,
and your arm
wants to swing into a dance,
but it was the ghost;
it has gone on without you,
and your feet
aren't sure they're worthy
anymore.
You think of the times you danced'

Delighted to find your imaginative skill