The Attic


A ghost fashioned out of love and nostalgia to calm my storm paces the attic floor. The lines of her hands trace up the stairs with fingerprints and echoes of laughter. Aching for the breath and bones, I sit with the construct as she continues to color me. With all that grace and light she speaks to what was and what should have been. I gently nod and remind the ghost I have made, she is loved truly and unconditionally.





A Golden Mirage?


Atop this body

There is my head

My throne of self

Upon which lies

The crown of soul

Attached to this

A carrot stick

It jumps and sways

Rocking my vision

The question remains

If this lure

Of my making

Is false hope

Yet drives me onward



Does it even matter?