THE LOUDEST SILENCE.

Time itself
is worn away

a palimpsest  of
memory.

The dead walk back
& forth

not knowing
they are the dead.

A photograph to behold
trapped between forefinger and thumb

the musings of
real life flesh & blood.

It is 12.05pm
on Valentine's Day.

The Past a peasouper
wherein 1913 can be

barely seen.

A glimpse of laughter
caught in the camera's click.

Even the Charring Cross houses
are dead.

The New Mall
approacheth.

The dead gaze out
from their b&w; lives

amazed to see me
staring back at them.

Sparks spit
from the dying fire.

I laugh at the vanity
of the living.

The cat laughs
in its sleep.

I, a ghost:
in the making.