Once I was capable of emotion and action -- they were

snuggled nicely within my heart-pumping, brain-thinking body.

Now those feelings, sensations, and movements are very distant.

My life has since faded into the colorless fog of death.

     Being a ghost is like being a cold rock buried in the earth. It’s

dark. It’s still. Movement occurs when something else moves

you— like a mother’s tear dropping through the ghost of her son,

moving him down in the wake of it’s path, settling him on the floor

around a warm splash of sadness.

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A neighborhood kid I grew up with committed suicide last year. This is something that I wrote during the months that followed -- It was for a challenge on Ficlets. It wasn't until I rehashed this poem in my Ficlets memorial that I realized this was about him. R.I.P. Parker -- I believe you've found relief and got what you wanted. I just wish I had known you as a young man.

updated Feb 11 '09 by Tad_Winslow