GHOST NOTES

By Alethea Cavanaugh

Don’t listen too closely as the voices hush.

I am the jarring echo of brittle laughter

that blossomed within the cacophony

before the quietude.  I am words

that once felt safe — camouflaged by white noise —

but now sink in unanswered awkwardness

across the divide. My words cut the silence,

but the chorus in my mind whispers

you’re a broken record. As a stopped clock

is right twice a day, there are instances

your pitch offers melody or harmony,

but do not mistake that for talent, do not

confuse solitary notes with symphony.

Half-tone, full exposure. I wear confidence

and competence like borrowed flotation aids —

too late do I notice their decay. Praise and friendship

are both waters I never learned to swim —

is this where I drown? In the pitch black

I hold that my flickering candle is a passable

source of light and heat, but I meet

my betters in the sun and the spotlight both.

Perhaps I am more moon than even candle —

the light I offer is not mine, merely a reflection.

The best I can hope to be is an adequate canvas.

I am a vampire in the mirror of my mind.

What lies where light lands not? Where I look

for a likeness of image, I find only distortion of my truths —

inks smudged, discordant song, a failed performance check. 

The mirror sings back as I wait for you to realise

all is illusion — smokey miasma and polished glass.

#DarkPoetsClub