The Ghosts Of Yesteryears

I carry the hammer from the cabinet.
Hear the tube of the sink leaking.
The chimes at the windows clang.
Monday afternoon is bland.

A Calypso song is playing.
My sweats fall from my brows.
Father opens the television.
There’s a sudden display of stellar fireworks.

I walk towards the front porch.
The house is becoming old.
Flashes of injuries flood in my head.
The ghosts of yesteryears re-appeared.

They brought madness.
They rendered traumas.
They stole the graceful way of life.
They buried glee below the ground.

Why do I still remember?
Oh, these sighs are perplexing.
To end what can’t be changed
is to start a miracle unexplained.




About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
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