Sometimes
at this age
in this stage
I feel like
a ghost
maintaining
a museum
for a personality
that never
fully materialized
Dusting sorting
arranging and
cataloguing
elements of
what could have been
had the spirit
of the artist
survived
It fusses about
in a labor of
unrequited love
Familiar and integral
with all that surrounds
yet apart, indistinct
and irrelevant
A shadow of
a disconnected
memory from
a time and place
unfamiliar
Dry hollow
insubstantial
A soulless soul
far less
than the whole
of the potential
of what it maintains
Still
at the corners
new shoots of green
wait to be tended
Brother,
I can see your skull
Brother, I Can See Your Skull.
