Ghosts of who we were

haunt the spaces

we once filled;

echoes of a voice

long since silent

or broken.

Shadows cast too long

by blinding light,

reflected

by mirrors and lamps.

New histories

repeated

yet, without mistakes,

interpreted

mistaken.

Remembered anew,

but unfolding

as we speak.

Like wallpaper – hung,

covering cracks

never seen –

no words can describe

what’s underneath

these motifs.

 

Ian Miller