On Becoming a Ghost

This is the end now.
Three-fourths of an ounce
has left you—
or is it you? Escaping
a carbon prison.

He is here to guide you.
To explain your existence—
or lack of one now.
There isn’t enough evidence
to say for sure. Postmortem
isn’t really the place to say.
Or stay.

But here you are.
If it really is you, and not
just a fog of a last breath
captured on a mirror.
Perhaps you are just a reflection—
and you will watch the world

As I write this, I can feel—
is it you? A tangible something
swirl around the room.

I almost see
a face, your face
stare from the window.

It’s gone.


3 responses to “On Becoming a Ghost”

  1. Life is a brief time; death even more so? In these moments between the two, do leave a mark? May we leave our handprint on the window as we depart? Will they see?

  2. As I read this I thought back to when my father passed and how subtle of a moment it was, yet monumentous at the same time. This poem expresses that moment perfectly.

    1. I am sorry to hear about your father. Thank you for reading, and sharing this moment and memory with me. Subtle and monumental. What an impression.

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