A poem written on an obscure, thunderous day in the comfort of a ginger cat at my feet and a hot chocolate in hand, after a meagre day of incessant learning.
Ghosts are not only the spirits of those whose consciousness leaves us,
And depart into the red lands.
Nor are they merely of those whose corpses rot away
six feet under.
***
Ghosts exist all around us.
They are the traces
And the markings
And the memories
And the art
Of all the past versions
of those
who are still living.
***
Every second
that passes,
every breath
we breathe out
is a past version of us
slipping
a w a y
i n t o m e m o r y .
***
Every decision brings us into
this moment,
every action
defines the version we become
and the one
we leave behind.
***
Who will you become?
Who will you leave behind?
