top of page

Don Thompson


Enthusiasm gutters and goes out,

congeals; what’s left

of the wick withers away;

ennui sucks all the air out of the room,

but consciousness itself endures:

a cold, unfueled flame

burning in a vacuum.



Ghosts who know only rumors

gathering in the dark

to negotiate my past,

never come to consensus.

Not even close.


And yet, falling asleep

I sometimes hear their whispers

that do more than haunt –

indisputable as stone,

the hard facts.

bottom of page