Ghosts in the Wind

Poetry

Photo by Pat Whelen on Unsplash

I wipe away the dust, the ghosts, the shadows
that slip through the cracks and clutter the quiet
moments in the day.

Bending the air with my fingertips. If only in my head.

The balance is lost, though I push past
skeptics, dreamers, wanderers, iron-hearted
heroes, and crumbling queens in search of my own salvation.

I know I’m fragile. Replaceable. Resilient. Insatiable.
For the simple reason that life is a storm, and it will drown you
if you let it.

Perhaps it’s just another tide I’ve learned to swim with,
or maybe I’ve become part of the current without knowing.

And I have yet to find anything in this world or the next
without ghosts trailing behind.

Echoes of forgotten promises.

So, poetry is when I breathe easy beneath a sky
woven with stardust and whispers of wind, racing against time,
just another breeze or gust waiting to break free
or follow the pull of yet another phantom.

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Umaima Irfan - Medium