Working With Ghosts

Sometimes a whisper, desperate to join the real world calls out from the tower, the cry of many memories trapped within the egron of time. Sometimes! Deafen by the silence one hears the exhaust fans out of balance, a simmering smoke stack exhale, rutunda roaster tumble, seductive klaxon wail spent bean silo rumble. Alas! The same stars still shine, the same moon reflects, as one feels again, the innuendos extracted out of the very shadows, that linger within the walls that surround this place. Profoundly this void, this vacuum of personification guides me as one follows one’s inculcation through the labyrinth of reasoning, where recollections pass by in a moment of blithe, an instant of reverberation spray dried in a cascade of fine blend, evaporated within a classic symphony, harmonies of years, sweat and tears grounded out of an idea. Yet spent! Like the rest of us. © Harry J Horsman 2000