The dreams of the past do not sleep
not here, where my memories return
like old wounds, that never heal
drawn by a silent call from deep within
that still remembers that ache
that the heart still denies
in the corridors of memories
I feel their breath caressing my neck
their shadows moving
with unsettling precision
as if they have walked this path
a thousand times
the night is a cathedral of dark
unchanged by centuries
where the wind threads itself
through the roots and hollows
and the petals fall, bruised pink
their colours fading as they descend
drifting into the void
between unseen worlds
here where we walk together once more
through the dark halls of our yesterdays
each of us a reflection of the other’s ruins
for here lie the half-lived days
the unspoken words, the fears I hide
even from myself
and the fire, always the fire
still clinging to it’s last embers
the dreams of the past do not die here
they do not drift quietly into the night
they are a procession of shadows
carrying their own light
and when the dawn comes
the ghosts fade, but never leave
they watch from the edges
waiting for the darkness
to open its gates again
© Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 