It's THE GHOST CLUB
you hardly know
when you're dead
it's just a different kind of
alive
I hang around
my old shed
touch & not touch
my rusting tools
some of the other ghosts
hang out at the bandstand
but only
when it rains
we call ourselves
THE GHOST CLUB
chat 'bout this 'n' that
that 'n' this
you know
the little things
that make
a life
we keep in touch
with the living
shadowing them
pretending to be their shadow
hidden in a sudden
slant of sun
on an evening
we shout and shout but
our words are invisible
it's like living
in a parallel dimension
living
inside a snow dome
when it's turned up side down
the fake snow falling
mimicking the real snow
falling gently now outside
I'd love to cry
but I've forgotten how
and I don't know
if it's allowed
it's a life
of sorts
somehow
I get by
(I miss my boy)
bye...bye...bye
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem