Ghost Guitar


It all happened too fast to realize what was here is now gone.
Trying to retrace and track the steps before the cells grow dim and cold.
A rusty reel spinning in the projection room of a smoky web antique movie house.
With fraying red velvet curtains embroidered golden braid tassels swaying noiselessly.
Here the ghosts never say goodbye, what was then is also now and now is forever.
Steven is still there inhabiting frames of existence. Guitar, an extension of his identity, composer, dreamer, madman because the world would not have it otherwise. We were each separately and together caught in crosscurrents and riptides too powerful to resist. We gave in, were consumed, sacrificed and reborn. So many things. All that time. Hourglass, sunlight, silhouette cutouts playing to dim blue shadows of moonlight.




Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-07-07 at 15:25

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