Spirits
Wearing their tattered shrouds
they slide into the graveyard of my dreams.
The grass moves where they walk
and Spanish moss sways.
You can't outlive us, I hear them say.
We never die. And from the dark loam
of memory they rise with false faces
and painted smiles. I know them well.
They know me. Once we were comrades.
Now, old sins whistle through empty rooms,
smell of decay. Where little is left--a chair,
a candle stub-- they remain, elemental as pain
or take their seats to rock upon the porch
or move the swing with its rusty chains.
Sue Scalf
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