remnants of old souls
Morning offers birds and sometimes sun.
Music climbs out of its hovel
released like perfume
and fire ignites in dust.
.
Few words are spoken
like remnants of last week,
a presence that lulls.
the clouds cover the sky
high and low
yet all the hours continue until daybreak.
I mentally repeat the presence of dead souls
listening to old sounds and anticipating travelled movements
but the spirits are so quiet
non-spoken, that I am left bitter, awaiting.
.
I put on my old clothes
that appear ill-fitting discolored
I don’t recognise myself
and my name is odd.
I console my empty hours
smiling for them but they sit heavily in my chair staring at me
all morning as I seek afternoon.
Wires are strung around a terrace fence
only birds are in view
I avoid the street of confusion
searching old books and sounds to define.
The familiar heart beat penetrates tradition and guides me.
.
The remnants of old souls still surround me.
