Ghost

The lines from a poem that came into my head as I walked upon the beach sand, which was taking a toll on my thighs, yet into that night as I; the ghost under the silver hue of the moon; the other ghost under the golden light of the sun; otherwise both dark; roamed.

Waves crashing, wind howling, clouds of rain thundered (occasionally) were the sounds, the ghosts silent but restless, roamed. Drifting past groups, meaningless identity and illusionary patterns of stars, people, the ghosts alone, roamed. What they saw in us were their own creation of what reflected from us, we were mere ghosts, roaming. Travelling in the space, time given to us, confined by the gravity of material world, we fought to go our own way, also kept us collapsing into the warped abyss.

Ghosts we were and nothing more, yet we were living, un-understood by the undead.

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