Silas Thorne's Journal

I live with ghosts.

Though everything complete
admits no addition
once in my Spring step smiled
a sweet voice of greeting
and I, too timid to respond
walked on, and ever do return.

Large parts of me do not exist.
When Spring's new growth bursts from the earth
I think of the fire,
with sunset comes that same day's peeping flame.

Under the sun, a snake's life circle runs
forever biting its own end
constantly backwards about coming forwards.

I live with ghosts, in two halves
large parts of me do not exist.