Ghosts

I dream of my dead
vivid technicolor hauntings
in wee morning hours
just before waking
I sit up with a start
heart thudding
disoriented
morning
after
morning
dreams cling to me
thick sticky strands
honey and lemon
that shine amber
as they sting
the partially healed wounds
loss has lashed
over and over
onto my soul
the edges pucker
burn
perhaps I should summon my ghosts
ouija board in lap
demand less cryptic messages
but I am not ready
some part of me
that I rarely acknowledge
holds on
refuses to let them fade
disintegrate atom by atom
into the mists of my past

© 2017 Revised 2020 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved