finally done, can open my eyes
not afraid to look in the mirror
I’m a ghost now, just a reminder
a remnant of what I once was
minutes somehow turned into decades
yet moss and dust covered me
like I was buried
and maybe I was
the shaking will leave me clean
spasms of the blessed and crazy
loosen the rusty joints
scattering cobwebs
with bleary yet clear eyes
I’m ushered to a new dawn
where the sun blazes red
and the ghost again takes form
the scholar
his pockets dusty with chalk
he strode through stone halls
nobody noticing
a tall thin man with glasses with a notebook
remembering the last instructions
the final words
he entered the library
dappled with musty sunlight
remembering the sequence
found the right shelf
tucking the book under his arm
he sought solace in the alcove
reading just enough
he smiled while making notes
patting the book like an old friend
knowing his adventure was about to begin
a glance
how could such things be
he could move her with a glance
no more words needed
a new tether
at the end of a tether at the end of the week
there’s no backing off from our need
so much to write
not enough to say
stumbling and tripping
over useless thoughts
nobody will stand in our way
in the face of such depravity
most will choose to look away
these flimsy ties to what’s real
are remarkably strong
but demand abandoning hope
casting away dreams like demons
you get pushed, so push back
there are no safe words or rules that apply
moving, not stopping is the only way
to keep from being stuck in one place
thoughts will swirl
around wounds that fester
healing kept at bay
by picking at scabs
raising scars
that most will never know are there
but we greet the world
with these gaping wounds
needlessly trying to fill them
with something besides ourselves
when our whole being
can only be whole
if we be ourselves
jump off that rope
climb a new tether
find something new within
lingering alone together
let’s linger
bask in the growing din
in our own world
as the crowds gather
never alone
brushing by the hordes
but mindless to all else
the city fog
helps the illusion
like mist on the moors
of some novel
we ‘ll tread, not just walk
like they did long ago
exploring
eyes and ears on our story
tuning out the rest
The Word Rummager 