caught between the dust motes
spinning lazily in the sun's rays
is that moment of time
that we all wish we could
have time again.....
                         ....and again

And what of ghosts haunting ghosts?
I see her dancing when I close my eyes
She twirls to the thrum of violins playing themselves
Spinning, twirling
Until the bones peek through her feet
And her skirt has beaten itself to tatters

I dreamt her as a child
And I wonder at that feat
I saw the future then, when now
I see nothing at all
Just the world spinning beyond my eyes, dizzier for my life
Twirling, endless
The music is endless
I am not.

I remember when she finally stumbles
Her ribs, her collarbones glisten pale in the lights
And the music tries again to drag her to her feet
But she is beyond its reach

Her corpse, cradled in Death's arms,
knows peace
I dreamt this, a child
The past living in circles
A prophecy, almost
That ghosts will come for ghosts
And that only corpses are beyond the music's reach.

It is a writer’s rage
that inks and turns
each bright white page
into a thing of calligraphic chaos.
Weird words are woven
into some coherent pattern
for the reader to readily discern;
Some hopeful aspiration
that denies or confirms
the appreciation the poet
hopes to earn
before time turns
his words to ashes.

Someday far too soon
this frequently falling buffoon
will be dirt and decay
rotting away
in another strange cage.

Hopefully not a wooden casket
to be dropped like the trots
and covered in crunchy kitty litter;
I would prefer to be
buried underneath
a freshly planted sapling.
Let growing roots
pierce and devour
every nutrient in me.

Do not let my resting form
await eternity, being so boring.
Let my death be a joining.
For in life I was brought forth
by mother nature of course
so, it only seems right
that in my twilight
I should serve
the source of my birth.