One by one the fragments gather,
float at the fringe of light outside
the room where you lie in the dark,
a stone in your chest.
You learn to live with these shards
forming an ungainly portrait;
it is everything you can’t understand,
and that fact gazes at the world,
a blank, revealing stare.
As always the pieces offer no answers.
But really, what more is there than a shaft of light?
As it withers, a late lambent fading on canvas,
you ask, “Is it real? How could it be?
If only there were some pattern to it all.”
 
 
 
*This poem is inspired by Eamon Grennan’s “Ghosts”