sharing a poetic LIFELINE with the world

Ancestor Worshipwrite-pic

The ghosts crowd around,
like shadows at 4 o’clock,
fragile as butterfly wings,
persistent as memory.

These shades are invisible,
seen only by me
in the span of your brow,
in the tenor of your temper.

Ancestors won’t leave me alone.

They thunder through my family,
Vikings on a rampage,
pillaging as they go.

Should I sharpen my axe
and join their company?

(1st Poetic Muselings Summer Poetry Challenge)

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