Sunday, February 08, 2009

A tragedy

The infinite, 
multiplying possibilities of childhood, 
being chased forever,
by the whittling years,
are dead men 
now.

Their ghosts however
return, without fail
to haunt the undeniable
now.

4 comments:

  1. strange,then, to find
    myself
    chasing after ghosts

    perhaps, to find the moment
    and place
    where the whispers i hear

    is my own voice.

    N.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Moping Monkey.

    :P

    ReplyDelete
  3. is what I would have called the inn, had I written the book. More to character ;)

    ReplyDelete