Midnight Stroll

October 6, 2015

It was the same song
Each and every night:
She arose and walked
Along the rocky path
Through the park to
Where she had died.

Her first time there,
Of course, would be
Her last. There was
No malice in her end,
Though she certainly
Wasn’t happy now.
Some folks have it
Far worse than being
Struck by a city bus.

As she strolls silently,
She takes note of the
Wandering souls still
Made of flesh, all still
Breathing, in and out.
She sighed to herself:
“I miss having blood.”

It was an odd thought,
Even for a ghost. She
Had simply meant that
There was a certain
Vitality to it, having it all
Coursing through you,
Every moment a lifetime…
And a certain emptiness
When it’s all gone.

Her pale face turns,
Once again, to face the
Bus that is no longer there.
Perhaps next time she will
Look both ways first.



September 22, 2011

“Always trust ghosts,”
I can remember someone telling me.
“They’re never dishonest.”
At the time, I had considered it
A piece of misguided advice;
I’d never met one after all.

There must be a word
For the kind of lost we all are,
But for the life of me (no pun intended)
I cannot think of the right one.

As I walk, or rather, drift
By faces and bodies, moving busily
From one place to another,
I am reminded of the life I once had.
I had a family, I think,
And a name long since forgotten.
I felt the sweat of an Indian summer
And wept when I felt pain.
Now… the salt of tears past are
All the memories I have.

The whole damned world
Makes a ghoulish horde,
Wandering aimlessly across
Seas and mountains;
Not dead, not quite alive.
A billion different souls
Asking the same question.