the morning breeze
sweeps through this
incorporeality
a soft reminder that
spirits have no real
significance to the
world of the living
as a long day begins
rattling rusted chains
leaving cupboards ajar
planting painted stones
in the foolish hope
a kernel of subtle
interest is enough to
resurrect a damned soul
long enough to feel
the dying sun shimmer
in ectoplasmic regress
invisible or intangible
a cold spot on the last
warm summer day as autumn
pulls the vibrancy from
the spectre of the moon
the tides endlessly batter
shadowed dreamchasms

there is no heartbeat
sounding beneath gray flesh
just maggots writhing
in the rotted insignificance
unheard as the mourning
breeze dirgefully sings
through the desolation
empty words ring too hollow
in a contradiction of joy

i wish i were a figment
of someone’s imagination
because then there might
have been a moment
someone fleetingly dreamt
i was real.