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Arthur-S-EbbersPoems
I feel like a detective brushing down a crime scene, or perhaps a runaway bride, hiding in plain sight. Lost but not gone, the fingerprints washed away, the ****** weapon left behind. There's no past like it, and no future to follow; a ghost that breathes, a newborn that doesn't. I feel like the final chapter, and nothing more. I haunt, I linger, I remain, though only in death and decay. Though only as a ghost. My mother taught me that. My mother taught me how to haunt, how to be there but not really. How to be a ghost that breathes, or, perhaps, a newborn that doesn't.
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Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 3:23 PM UTC
A Strange Sort of Death
I feel like a detective brushing down a crime scene, or perhaps a runaway bride, hiding in plain sight. Lost but not gone, the fingerprints washed away, the ****** weapon left behind. There's no past like it, and no future to follow; a ghost that breathes, a newborn that doesn't. I feel like the final chapter, and nothing more. I haunt, I linger, I remain, though only in death and decay. Though only as a ghost. My mother taught me that. My mother taught me how to haunt, how to be there but not really. How to be a ghost that breathes, or, perhaps, a newborn that doesn't.
AND EVERYONE ALWAYS GETS IT WRONG, NOBODY SURVIVES SUICIDE, YOU DIE HALF OR YOU DIE WHOLE BUT YOU DIE ALL THE SAME.
#death#ghosts#haunting#family#loss#grief
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Arthur-S-Ebbers
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 3:23 PM UTC
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