The Book of Ghosts

The Book of ghosts ;

The pages flutter, empty, (sonnets )

structure lost to the wind

migrating swans carry my useless

 words within their beaks

                             mute speaks

the deserted pamphlet

only lost energy remains

floating /tethered to the pulp

unable to fly free, 

-

they murmur to me

they whisper and scream

                              in dreams

Incommunicado

a conduit

for a language lost, 

the format darkens and slips

faint memories fading

with a transparent taste

only the dead can truly talk of life,

and they try, they do,

in moans and howls,     confused

through time and space

meaning morphed into primal rage

at the lack of understanding 

frustration

rippling the blank staring gaze

-

the book of ghosts

filled with ephemeral joy and loss

( of stories untold )

of deepness of heart

of sadness in part

the poetry of the soul

unreadable in this realm

almost reflected in steam

in the mirrored echo of mind

-

the writing undone

the undoing unsung

the silence hung

                     ( was hanged )

between the lines

-

the sepia soaked howls and 

tarnished tainted moans

a stanza of sorts

dissolving as soon as pen touches paper

the faintest of tracers

                   left behind

finely imprinted on

                    dead trees and skin