By JH Sayyar
When I unlock memory’s lock in lone,
And silence spills its echoes in my mind,
Old ghosts arise, not flesh, but bone on bone,
Their whispers soft, yet sharp as winter wind.
A childhood laugh behind a rusted gate,
The eyes once lit by love now lost in haze,
The scent of rain that came too cold, too late,
The hands I held in vanished yesterdays.
What folly, soul, to stir this dusty room
Yet still I turn the key, compelled to roam
Through ache, through faded light and gloom,
For even pain recalls some sense of home.
So let me walk where only I have tread
And make my bed among the living dead.
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