They are not ghosts

They are not ghosts

But a trillion

Hollowed shadows

Running through my head

They are inescapable

A labyrinth

Of impossible

Improbabilities.

Even on a good day

With a favourable wind

Behind me

I stagnate,

In perpetual doldrum.

As the whispering

Of old memories

Threatens to tear

The filaments

Into pieces

Nothing is immutable

All but death

Is revocable

Perhaps,

If I contemplate,

Meditate, ameliorate

This state will change

The darkness pass

An echo

Of all things lost

Will be redeemed

And I will be free.