The ghost, yesterday,
Writes a mystery of rising,
Falling, perfectly played no retakes,
Only steamy, streaming tears
Coursing over pallid cheeks
Give lie to the hale semblance
Of consistent happiness.
Still, the simple setting has
An attraction magnetic
Because in the playing, pain
Is a specter passed by,
No damage doubly done,
Not materializing – nor destroyed
By being again; only felt,
Visionary, memory recorded,
In soft tissue, written like
A blade slicing through braided
Rope to frazzle and progress.
All harm rendered obsolete
In the forward movement,
These crystalline moments,
Of who is and what will become:
The dream opens itself to
Fulfill love’s destiny now, ever.
© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
Haphazard Creative 