Death has transformed my ghosts into thoughtful gentlemen.
They insist we wander from my obligation to misplaced guilt
And the cold carcass of whateverthisrelationship was.

Two of them take me by hand. The third trails behind,
Carrying my laced veil of sorrow,
Preventing my tumble into a coil of aged anxiety.

We walk for some time,
Strolling a pathway filled with memories and lost love.
The route is familiar, but each step weighs on my soul.

I grow tired maneuvering the course terrain.
The ghost bearing my veil of sorrow takes me into his arms,
Comfort.

The other two take place their place before and behind us:
Predictability and Reassurance.
I fall asleep to the steady pace of Comfort.

I awake in a meadow of Indian paintbrush.
Vivid colors are masked by sleepy shadows
while stars descend in the form of tranquil snowflakes.

Wakefulness is an illusory dream.
My ghosts take turns recounting fond memories
That both warm and sting my hands.

Ghosts are ghosts because they're only ever half-present,
Fluctuating between present and departed.
Their presence is transient and perpetual.

But there's a certain security in knowing
My ghosts are dependable enough to find me
When daylight turns to
                                           nightmare.