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