From the, getting gone, polyester blanket…of another’s memories.
An apparition approached with no words to spare.
A vacant troth with not a single pitcher to fill her.
In the restraint of ghostly disarray.
A mongrel for written word…
I had nothing to say.
So much had been our way of caring without sharing.
A home-built for show.
Rustic pardoning of stain and cedar.
Secluded, even when wrapped in Christmas garland.
Innocence, here…had been given no pardon.
I could not then.
And, cannot still.
Contend with a ghost so frail.
Caught up in the pinnacles of life, I am but a mistaken void.
A template for those who neglect…
Or, simply, annoyed.
A fragrant weed behind a nameless graveyard.
Someone ghosts can yield and avoid.