I convince myself that I must keep writing,
if only to document the thorns I've pulled out,
the gardens I've managed to walk out of despite
convoluted paths that lure me into absurdity.
I can't tend to what is already dead.
I wake each afternoon,
feeling like I've been pulled from
someone else's fading consciousness,
clovers and creeping buttercups
attentively following me.
Sometimes, I wish the ghosts would linger,
so I could feel their presence in this forlorn house,
but maybe they've been here all along.
Maybe, like me, they're choosing
a vocation of silence,
and we are travelers on unfit soil,
wondering who will ever hear us.
