your ghosts are welcome here…

your ghosts are welcome here: 
they are with you. 
there are no questions why, 
or how, or wherefore -- 
and you can nestle in, 
just over there... 
or over here, if that 
is where your heart's been. 

i asked you once if you'd felt everything: 
you said you always had, from early memory -- 
we laughed, that day: a taste of sweet-and-ginger, 
a holiday no calendar had showing. 
and when we left it off, the lakes were fuller, 
almost buckminster fuller, we might say -- 
but why we'd say it, no one really knows. 

word's gentle touch, a morning breeze that's blowing, 
across the lonely hills, and by the dome 
where clouds betray the fickleness of fortune, 
how randomly we just call someplace, 

"home"

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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