Ghost Flowers

Come with me, O haunted soul,

And share with me your memory

Of life’s travails, winters cold,

And pleasures wilted in the fold.

Of old curtains and blankets torn

When lovers had want for naught

Hearts handed to be ever scorned

When youth embraced a spotted rot.

Cleverly springs a mind in hunt

When souls are all alive in touch

But given o’er the heavy time

Begins to smell the scent of lime. 

And burrows in a corner spent

A life of pitted wrinkled fruits

A tepid light on shrunken wax

A man’s last moment ‘fore the axe.

Look up and see the softly pink

A ghost bouquet for life’s aplomb

And smell once more the happy scent

When every touch is heaven’s song.

And smile again for wanton youth

Flare the cheeks in crimson blush

Laugh the heart that breaks no more

When all remains is one last door. 

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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