the memories I buried

do not age

although their ghosts

who visit me, often, do,

in dreams they stare

back coldly, almost

nose to nose, intently,

always unseen by others,

they study me carefully

 calibrate my ageing traits

as my skin begins to pale

wrinkle, taut and crack,

I feel no fear

nor intimidation, for these

wise old grey pallid faces

tell me truths, question me

stop time, formulate plans

to help steer my course,

age as they might, both

memories and ghosts

somehow live on forever

in discordant symbiosis

 

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24