Petrichor

They lingered in the wake of their own death;

Pulsing

Against every vein of life, heavy and diaphanous and silky and coarse,

Slipping through fingers and running around corners when alive,

But shadowing every movement when ghosts . . .

. . . and they were there!  In the night, on my pillow, in the air,

Alive with all the mass of blood and bones, weighing on my sleep like stones.

A leash on my existence, laudable for their persistence,

No memories- they never met reality; no remedies- they’re only there for me to see.

Little dead dreams have no graves, the little dead dreams that no one saves. 

 

The scent of fauna after rain, lingering forever; driving me insane.

Dreams grow into regrets, and guilt and drink and cigarettes,

Or long commutes and five-to-nines, bitter love and unpaid fines.

Days that stretch long and taut; aging skin that simply will not.

Decades, a lifetime, neatly packed into a past, furtive memories that might not last . . .

 

“. . . well, there was something like you in me- you’re just an . . .

Extension

Of myself.  A forty year difference means as little as your youth.

Fugacious and ephemeral, you might be at my funeral,

But someone will be at yours.  Someone younger and prettier and containing that,

Stuff.  That life.  That pulse.

You’ll follow in my wake whether you want to or not . . . one way or another . . .”

Author's Note

An attempt at something a little different from what I normally write . . . any criticism appreciated :)

Reviews

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This is a very well write piece. Very nicely done.

A very impressive use of words. While not true poetry in a structural sense, that is not what matters to me. It is the content of this write that seals the deal for me.
A brilliant title (l love that smell!). A very deep write with a deeper theme throughout than first appears to the eye.
Nice work!.