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Drafts, Poetry


They arrived without ceremony:
Ghosts bearing the faces of the still-living

who do not speak, but whose visage a mirror
to somewhere else. They scare me.

Because one moment you’re safe in sleep,
and the next you wake. Like that; like counting
down from ten to end at seven. Too soon.

They brought message:

A burning vestibule upon which we laid our lilacs.
A shimmering rainstorm of smoke-signals.
A capricious god masquerading as a god.
A candle-flame carried on the back of one’s hand.

A sleepless night of sleep.

Because memory is no different from a haunting.

When they come to you, do not look them in the eye
as they have no eyes. Borrowed facade is the best
they can do to convince us of their importance.

Remember them, because they are no different from us,
just different enough as we are all different.

When they knock over your glass do not curse them.
Sweep the shards and follow your gaze to the waste-bin.



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