by Nick Gisburne
The spirits drift inside her dreams. They feel,
To trace whatever twisted trail they can.
With slender, supple fingers they reveal
The mirror of a memory, a man.
Forgotten in the rubble and the dust,
The sediments of time are swept aside.
Reluctant to remember him, she must.
The portrait is too harrowing to hide.
The face she finds is one she never saw.
The shadows show a man who might have been.
His passing is a rip, forever raw.
The spirits stole her son at seventeen.
A memory of what will never be.
A mirror, filled with dreams too dark to see.
