Ghost
self insertion narrative poetry...
Ghost
It is late
Perhaps the early hours of morning
Darkness engulfs everything
You walk on silent feet
No footsteps left to follow after you
No destination planned for this journey
Merely moving
Aimless and alone
No inclination of the place from whence you came.
The sidewalk is dirty
Crumbling with the memory
Of years of feet just the same as yours
All appears quiet
The low buzzing hum of the nightlife is faded by now
Muted in the dull light of the streetlamps
Everywhere, there is calm the smell of dew, fresh dirt, and decaying leaves lingers
The odor of stale urine passing on the breeze
As you wander passed a deserted bus terminal
Is almost nauseating
But the cool air is pleasant enough
To forgive the passing scent.
The shrieking of a lone swing
In an abandoned playground
Catches your idle notice
A child sits upon the solitary swing
Pale fingers wrapped tightly around its chains
Legs pumping with practiced ease
You watch the child avidly,
Pausing in your steps
There is nothing unique about him
He is not an exceptional child in any way
He is not beautiful
Nor ugly
He is not normal
Nor odd
He is merely there
Swinging back and forth
Staring into the distance behind you
At nothing in particular
Unaware of your quiet scrutiny.
There is something about him
It pulls at you
You wonder
'Why is he here?'
'Why alone?'
'What is it he's looking at so intently?'
No answers come to mind
As you turn to follow his gaze
Nothing but darkness greets your eyes
The shrieking of the ancient swing set stops abruptly
You glance back for the cause of the sudden quiet
The child is gone
Disappeared
The swing does not move.
You look around
You ponder
'Where did he go?'
'Why did he leave?'
'And so quickly?'
There is no sign of him at all
Or any inkling of where he might have gone
But you do not worry for the child
You are at peace
You stand
Staring unblinkingly at the motionless swing
The deserted playground whispers around you
Your body remaining still in the hush that falls
You did not see his departure
The swing does not sway with the remembrance
Of his body
You question
'Was he ever there at all?'
Copy-written to Xander Bradeshaw.