We are the ghosts.
We haunt our own tomorrows
and yesterdays,
with ‘will do’s’,
and ‘should have done’s’.
Rummaging in
pantamorphic probabilities
for solutions;
sure reconstitutions,
and amiable outcomes.

We haunt the minds of others.
Manifesting in their thinking,
through the channels of their
memories, and expectations.
Exploiting the anaclitic
affectations of their imaginations,
and embedding in their minds
the cultures, of our infestations.

We glide the corridors of fantasy,
compiling schemes of dreams.
The interfection by selection
of transient temporials,
sends us flying with the fishes
on the road to Mandalay.
As our shades secure scenarios:
Composed, gubernatorial,
as stages where the ghosts of thought
we generate, can play.

The images formed in our minds
link with reality, and impinge
on the fabric of it’s nature.
Retrocausaly, rewriting history;
prophetically polluting peradventure,
with personalised preconception.
Declaiming that it was ‘that’ way.
And robbing the future of mystery.

Our minds abash our flesh
and escape the cloying mesh
of impediments material
that damn corporeal hosts.
Impositions and invasions on
ethereal terrain, stake
our shadowland domain, that
we haunt. We are the ghos

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SpecialSense's picture

Really amazing! I deeply

Really amazing! I deeply enjoyed reading this.

Astral_Tides's picture


Such a richly written piece. Had to read slow to allow it to process. So much said in so little.. great wright!

"The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence." R.W.E.


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Coryllus's picture


Probably everyone who writes a poem is asking us to think about something, and I get a little deep sometimes.