THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

Don Thompson​

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Candle

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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.

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Phantasms

 

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.

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