Ghosts pass by.
Abandoning armchairs,
stubbing out cigars,
quaffing the final drop
of vintage port
they float away,
down the back stairs,
checking their auras
in the cracked mirror
as they go.
Ghosts pass by.
Evicted from rooms
of haunted sleep,
they pass on, like wind,
like a Fellini parade,
a dust blown cavalcade
of ragged motley
seeking another home,
another creaking attic,
another empty shell.
Ghosts pass by.
Swathed in scars and chains,
autumn leaves and broken hearts
they pass the open window
of my glorious night.
Weeping phantoms,
restless souls and spirits,
their gaze is losing me
and I watch their sad ambling
with eyes of dawn.
Ghosts pass by
in feather boas, painted rags,
stained armor and cloaks of stars;
a susurration of shadows
shimmering with enchantment;
tears and whispers in the night.
Ghosts pass by, darkly inviting
but I turn and touch the sun,
and am exorcised again
in pulsing light.
~~~
Acrylic painting and poem by Clinock
Edited redux from October 2013
art rat cafe 