Haunted;
By whom, if not the dead?
In origin, to haunt--
To rise from the grave;

Adapted-- often thought of
Memories, things unrequited.
A soul tortured by objects
Is one who never-- even-- lived.

Haunted-- by whom
If not those left
Burnt, unburied,
Dead by theft?

Six million constant ghosts,
In addition to those
Left on speed dial on my phone,

Those placed on this earth, the
Guardians,
Who were cut down wearing green,

And the one whose deathbed
I attended--
They
Will
Not
Give
Me
Peace.

I loved you, once,
And never thought
The paper would read your name.

I wronged you twice,
I lied, I thought I’d find
A better man.

You all went off to war,
On foot, or encased in metal, or in air.

There thrice were years,
Each time I prayed another safe.

All four lovers, tall and short,
Happy at last or forever alone,

It was for me they’d have laid down lives,
And I never thought I’d cry.

I want to fall in love again and again;
With the anticipation of constancy
Forming butterflies with little wings
Before they fly off, leaving pits.

I want to gaze into many different sets of eyes;
That one with crinkles at the corner,
Others maybe blue or green,
And only mine remain.

I think I’d like to recycle tragedy and redemption,
To forever be seen for the first time,
To constantly be revealing my secrets
And be the worship of a man.

I should like this world to be a place
Where we agree to fall in and then out,
With a mutual parting of ways
Once the butterflies fly away.

Most gentle of souls,
Kindred of old,
Who raised me up.
In dreams you linger,
And in the mirror,
And in every shade of red hair.
Though at the end
Shriveled and frail
Strength did not fail.
A story kept alive in Esthers,
What is past
Has not passed.

For the aching hearts left wordless with no voice,
For the early morning hours, dark, promising to break,
For the flowers left unwatered, but not faded all the way,
For the young and hopeful, for those innocent in faith,
For the ageless, be they pages, names or graves,
For the smell of wet earth on any undiscovered shore,
For the babes born today and their grandchildren tomorrow,
For those capable of leading and those content to follow,
For the memories of the faces and the footsteps and the battles and the joy.

Do we possess the power
To realize redemption
In the form of lists of traits and acts

("I will never"s)

Commanded by ourselves,
Expected by our elders,
Or will we

("How can I ever?"s)

Forever pass down flaws--
Habits, addictions,
Disorders,
Imperfections--

Destined to repeat
Mistakes of generations?
Can we break
The chains
Of humanity,

So attached to our material face,
Those pieces of people that God created base?

Can we rise from the ashes of history
And genealogy,
And emerge in plumes of phoenix spirituality?

May we disregard our assumption
That our hearts were molded in order to harden

By hand of God, old age or beast?
May we achieve angelic simplicity
And simply be?