In amongst the hills I visited the gravestone of my ancestor.
It read, ‘Here lies, for absence of truth denied is such that here lies.’
Thus the fall of leaves leave the fall, for winter comes.
The light fades, autumn colors are suppressed.
A cold calling out. Darkness brings more echoes of the ghost.
I growled at the granite, “Oh ancestor, you are slain yet you roam.
Take of your death, let breath be of joy and sorrow be silent.”
The echoes from darkness toss undiscerned.
There is but little reason to stay by this grave.
I wander away.
But ethereal chains hold me to unfortunate fates that render me for forgotten.
The grave is but my former self when flesh strived for hope to not need itself.
All is lost.
I am the ghost of myself.
-M