Ghostly Glimmer

Michael Brack – Withered Roses

Cold untilled soil,
an overgrown garden full of weeds,
blooming roses,
an atmosphere heavy and mournful.

An empty house
unlived in for many, many moons.
Decaying walls;
unloved, dusty and abandoned.

Eerie sounds
once sound of laughter, happiness.
Dark shadows,
lurking horrors and unsolved truths.

A vacant owner,
unwilling to return to the family home.
She lingers alone;
he hides alone so far from their home.

Through a prison window,
light falls on a room with dead roses.
Her favourite vase untouched,
roses she loved sit cobwebbed, dead.

A ghostly glimmer;
faceless, loveless, she stands alone.
Unbroken connection,
she cannot leave the place she loves.

Unsolved truths,
bound to this house by his untruths.
Unable to move on,
chained to this lonely torment waiting.

A coward disguised,
his fear of her spectre haunts his nights.
Provocative heart,
her resolve to linger touches his days.

She waits for him,
lingering within what was the family home.
She waits for him
to bring the son she loves so much home.

The Silver Spoon

An antiquarian silver spoon,
hidden in an old treasure shop.

A desire to caress the spoon,
to touch and feel the silver.

The spoon feels alive in her hand,
as if she once touched the spoon.

An image of herself so unfamiliar,
laying down on an unknown sofa.

A dress of white adorned with
many light roses moving down.

A noise from behind awakens her,
as the book slips from her chest.

The spoon above her,
a flash of colour,
then cold nothingness.

Seeing herself dead,
looking at his face.
The man she already knows,
blood dripping from the spoon;
her fiance holds the knife.

No Answers

Your head is low; you sit and wait. The clock ticks loudly. Even in death, there is no escape from the time. 

The smell of anti-bacterial solution numbs the senses and leaves a sense of sadness in your thoughts.

You are sitting and waiting with such intensity; the flatlining beeps and the screams of urgency jolt you. Your head turns towards the sky, only the ceiling.

Anguish grips your chest. There is a knowing that this is the end; numb feelings and recollections of little things about the face you love.

You wait for answers, which never come. Time passes, and fatigue sets into your bones. A person arrives, trepidation increases, and you know your world is shattering: a knowing of sadness.

A person says, “Come with me…“.

The silence, as you look down. Ghosts wait in the wings for sadness to come so they can feed and devour on the stench of heartbreak.

One look and you know he is not there, yet his body remains on the bed. The sheets are white, his flesh is cold, and you know death has come to the love of your life.

Your world softens as a kind hand touches your skin. 

Even now, you feel love and know you will get through this. You know this, yet what of your love?

Two Ghosts

You sit at that mahogany desk you love
diligently researching paranormal things.

You look for an answer to what isn’t clear;
sadness is cruel to your burning heart.

You miss me; I know this very, very well,
I miss you and hold on in this place still.

You held me in the last moments of life,
I remember all your words and actions.

You feel my touch, but I do alarm you so
I whisper in your ear, “Be my lungs, love.”

You look pained and move so violently
I cannot catch you as you fall from me.

You left those papers to be with me today
I’m sorry, yet it had to be this way, my love.

You see me now, but there is much horror;
I felt that way too, yet this horror will pass
you say, “It was always you here close.”

I say with conviction, “Yes. Always close.”

You look at me, and I look at you, and we see
we see the love we have for each other.

Death in the Snow

In the snow, the seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.

You’ve been down this road before: broken and broke.

There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now: free on this bench in the snow.

You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I had a poet’s heart, and I was more familiar with words, I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this; this is a photograph or a painting…

You sit still in the snow, and you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.

Your last moments were broke and broken, beautiful and sad, as you thought of the falling snow.

What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow as you sat full of a fading glow until the light turns to darkness.

Now you get the chance to do it all differently.