Ghost Lace
The dead dance in our midnight dreams
then kiss our soul at rising light of sun beams
The soft heart of yesterday still firmly beats
as we recollect their images on memory streets
Now we are the breathing book of the dead
since our choices are their chapters to be read
How do we acquire letters from ghostly streams
when their spiritual desk is but of secret steam?
They become invisible shawls upon on us as we
struggle with our sanity and witn utter lonely keys
Their flashing faces drift as haunting incense
we breathe in their afterlife essence of intense
The dead are flaming candles that flicker towns
though we cannot touch we see the glowing crowns
Is the Grim Reaper the black rainbow of promise
where the platinum pot reunites our true love solace?
May 3rd 2002
Copyright © Chantelle Cooke | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment