Talking to the ghosts,
Of everyday present.
Maybe an interesting story,
But only maybe of any use.
Seven billion savage stories,
Each one a different world.
Interrelated, yes, barely at best.
Tenuous strands stretched thin.
Tugging and loosing and tangling.
All the more tangled,
For the more shared.
All the more frayed,
For the more drawn.
Sometimes one-ended loneliness.
Sometimes a circular tug of war.
Sometimes a lonely strand on the floor.
We could never hope to understand,
That which we draw hither,
Any better than the very hands we use,
To futilely clasp a snowflake.
So we hold what strands we can,
With any meaning we can imagine.
And across the void we scream to soothe,
The isolation of each others’ frail hearts.