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:

Anonymous said...

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.

Jake said...

Schizo.

:)

Anonymous said...

Moping Monkey.

:P

Jake said...

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