haunted

"Every ghost is but a favorite fiction
of the dead," you smirk
as if your proclamation
might let the living might breath more easily

No, I tell you, no.

There is more than dust
and bones. There are still
the memories of laughter when
the dirt has settled and the moss
grown into the crevices of a name.


"That is all," you almost-laugh,
"a ghost is just the story
the living tell to remember
the unremarkable dead."

No, I tell you, no.

There is more than a heartbeat
and blood. There is the last breath
hanging there with hope of light
when the moonless starless darkness
inside an oakbox seems all consuming.

"every ghost," you cacklle,
"is the spell of a witch like me
on a fool like you."