Burnt coffee slowly going cold,

A self-portrait the artist never finished,

Last night’s eveningwear strewn across the room,

An ancient cat, having gathered a lifetime’s worth of dust on its fur,

Grooming herself in the corner,

And in center stage,

The artist dancing

With the ghost of his lover,

Fingers wrapped around air,

Heart beating to the sound of a distant song,

Waltzing around the phantom of loves long lost,

Kicking up little plumes of dust with each twirl,

Which, having been freed, float up, up, and towards greater things,

Settling again on the chandelier to live anew amongst the cobwebs.


The melody ends, and the dancer crumples, spent, to the floor,

His lovely ghost floating up, up, and away,

And the artist sheds a single tear

Before leaping up to dance anew

To the beat of distant drums that play his heart like a string

On some foreign instrument

He’d never had the luxury of playing in life.


Published by


A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s