In the velvet air

In the velvet air, ghosts are
suspended and linger near
the surface of time.

While time itself marches on, an
incessant dog whining to be let out
of its holding pattern.

And the pattern of the ghosts takes a new likeness
for every soul.

For you, the ghosts fall like raindrops
cutting
the
night


and time still goes by.

The ghosts, of what ifs, and
"I should have"
or
"if only . . . "

Forever chasing the seconds,
reaching out from behind
tapping
you on the shoulder,
pulling
at your hand to remind you

of all the things you have not,
you did not,
you could not,
or that you simply
are not.

The haunting fact of forgotten, fallow
and given-up upon dreams.

Yet time pushes onward.

Forcing ghosts to forever be chasing their
unfinished business.

You, looking back briefly,
see the ghosts falling, washing out what could have been
as time and routine disturb your reverie to remind,
that yet again you are to repeat the day
after day after day after day after day after day.

The air is full of ghosts tonight.