Ghosts

I dream of my dead

vivid technicolor hauntings

in the wee morning hours

just before waking

I sit up with a start

heart thudding

disoriented

morning

after

morning

dreams cling to me

thick honey and lemon

sticky sweet  coating

that clogs my thoughts

stings the partially healed wounds

loss has lashed over and over

onto my soul

they pucker

they burn

Perhaps I could summon my ghosts

Ouija board in lap

demand less cryptic messages

but I am not ready

for their judgments

of my life

some part of me

that I do not acknowledge

holds on

refuses to let them fade

disintegrate atom by atom

into the mists of my past

 

© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved