If all of this has taught me anything, it’s this…

There is little difference between a ghost, and a soul that’s trapped in their own past.

Fumbling through memories behind this Mask of Presence.

Stories playing all the while, everywhere. Even as I speak to you.

Lost

in a dark rotting forest, seemingly responsible for all its creatures, every tree another task; under every fallen leaf and branch

a question.

And my eyes water as I choke

from a whiff of

distant smoke.

No oxygen to answer.

Bury my youth.
Left on that sunny hill,
A train snakes the valley,
Carrying more than I realized.

Add that small white cross to the rest,
No different than the others,
and Leave No Flowers.

You change like the weather
And I know you were just a storm.
Pass through that valley No More.

My youth is at rest and will not stir
Regardless of your bluster.