Dawn – A poem.

Fog cuts the city—
zigzagged lines of unskilled hands
that first picked up a saw.

Like the mirror,
broken above the sink.
But you can see lines that bisect
and twist across your face.

Everything is muffled.
The type of silence you only sing about.

JKolasch

On Becoming a Ghost – A poem.

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
backwards.

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.

JKolasch

Critical – A poem.

The monitor has become
a mirror.

Like a shield,
it used to separate—
creating a comfortable distance.

The barbs from fingertips
would deflect—

and forget.

Yet, the face inside
is visible—

harder to ignore.

I can see you—
or, is that me?

My eyes wet from the strain.
That’s what I tell myself.
It’s stuck in my throat—
and even reaching for water I know won’t help—
I have to look away.

But I see it.
I see you, a floating haze of words
and pictures.

Seared in my vision.

The monitor has become
a mirror.

And I,
well, I am no better
than those I criticize.

JKolasch

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