Hosting ghosts.

That Ghost sometimes lost 

to personally unappreciative Stereo filled ears 

days that folded away 

to bazaars that are now so distant 

as i stare out on tomorrows closing lights 

my own archers eyes blinking 

that laugh down a hall that call 

bells for the late night interchange 

as i leave you sleeping in the cage overhead 

a kernel of a pitted peach 

a visible trail to those invisible blue hands 

that once bandaged mine 

ideas of greed a technique 

learnt on a metronome timed line.