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.