Vaguely named shadows convene
to populate my past,
I hold the only front row seat, but
afraid to turn my head
cannot counsel their expressions, field their sighs
or sample any choked applause
that meets my ears, a melange of meaning
the symphonica of a life gone by.
My many ghosts all know themselves, as
jigsaw pieces boxed randomly
in the upper stalls,
ahead the fire curtain I am forced to study
forms the picture on the box,
my life in fragments, interlocked
few pieces left to set.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2015
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