GOSSAMERS OF PLASM

Dead, I am silked, a thread secreted into the world.

I feel the shiver of others like me drifting in and out of the Living; a billowing swill of dead personalities ebbing and flowing in God's big tide.

We are everywhere; the gasses of death, filling, cupping, pooling, seeping, bubbling. We are the spectres, the phantoms, the spirits and the ghosts. An ecto-system of passings.

I walk across the breath of my family and cloud their eyes. Sometimes I can lift a bed-sheet and stretch when no-one is looking. Or at least I don't think they are.

Its strange being dead. Being a ghost.

Imagine breathing on a cold glass in an empty house or trying to bottle the last whispers of thought before sleep.

We are the lonely denizens of darkness, the misty weather of silence and the undigested dreams of worms.

We enter things. We can enter you as long as there are liquids.

We rest in spirit levels and thermometers; blisters of past lives nighting in the things we know. Measuring the straights helps us remember. Shaking the mercury restores our hope that we too will catch a fever once again.

Sometimes we congregate and imagine Heaven. You call them rainbows. We arc together on paths of memory, holding hands, skipping like schoolkids in the hues of our yesterdays.

Sometimes we moan when there is nothing left. No hope. No future. Just the prison of being where we once lived, the traces of our existence. It is our eternal sadness, our infinite tears that drive the leprous engines of the after-life.

Spent. Redundant. Done. I think I feel but I'm unsure what it is that's happened. Above is a sea of oxygen, which I cannot breathe. Anaerobic. I am the opposite of being. The perpetual gasp of breathing-out.

Nudging into other floating wisps, I stand and stare, sensing nothing, chewing nails I do not have. 

My sails of life lie still, flat; like lungs of fog, paper bags.

Pirates have stolen our world, lashed to a shipless mast in seas of deep regret.

Weeded, dug in, boxed, burnt. When my memories of the life I loved turn to soil I will turn to hate for sustenance.

As others do, we shall haunt you.