A Poem by Erin Sky

I was just thinking one day - what makes ghosts scary? They can't really do anything


What do we have to fear from the dead?

Those whitish wisps that rise from blustery tombs,

have no power, they cannot maim cannot

take you to their no-place in the halls

of splintered wooden mansions.


Perhaps what they alone possess is

that dark cave in the cliffs of our minds

and, there projected, remind us of our death

(our temperature, our eminent departure)

frighten us into refractions of nothingness,

horoscopes written in the vast and ludicrous Beyond.


The one place all must cross to, some therefrom return

but men are liars and truth is hard to discern

no one sees the southerly side of those nimble saplings

that stand as barricades,

the thousand scions of the Tree of Knowledge


The fruit on this cold North front has frozen and fallen

the split hull the spilt seeds

on fertilised soil, on fouled roads

to take root, perhaps, and grow?


Only to out live us as we ourselves are ghosts again.

© 2008 Erin Sky

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Posted 16 Years Ago

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Added on May 16, 2008


Erin Sky
Erin Sky

Ithilien, Gondor

I hear I'm a bit cryptic, for all my loquacity; I talk too much, due to all I need to say; I am Gemini, and astrology is bollocks; I'm narcissistic, and hate myself for it; I dwell in irony, in the ra.. more..