(a poem by Timothy J. Verret)

He was the stars and the sky and the sun and the moon and, yes, back again,

and then

he turned into a ghost

he lost all color for me

he was once tall

he was once gay

he was once me

before he turned into a ghost.

I’m so lonely for him.

The floor just don’t support me like it used to.

My blank stares come back with


“What about the rest of them?”

I don’t know them.

They turned into ghosts, too.

What’s left when all them turn into ghosts?


But God is a ghost, right?

Right, but He hasn’t left yet.

He hasn’t turned yet.

I’m hoping in Him.

“You’re a terrible poet!”

I know

but so are ghosts.

I’m so tired.

Do ghosts get tired?

I don’t know.

I just know a man turned into one.

Maybe I’m one, too?

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