ghosts

time, time always brings
tears to my eyes
to stand there
to watch him
to sigh at weakness
split down the bone

no story has that tragic
ending, where the hero
fights bravely, and sacrifices
his love on the altar

the only ghosts there truly are
are conjured
by twists of fate
and tired eyes

ghosts of the broken,
the wounds that haunt us
heal,
not with the passage of time
but with an ache and a surrender

and aren’t we hostages? to those quiet moments
that cast flaming shadows
on foaming shorelines
drawn
down stairs of hushed voices
fearful of the sorrow
that might
or might not have been

turn to the advocates
to wise elders
that we might sail home from Calypso
and borrow enough blessings to
do it right this time