The ghosts that are memories.

Time passes, day after day, without ceasing or pausing,
And each new day takes the weary traveler further from
The start of their long journey.
Maybe it was a turning, a junction in the road that introduced
A new direction, but once a route is started upon there is
No going back.
No going back, even when the new direction is beset
With pain and strife, when the way becomes muddied and wet,
The stones unsettle and shift beneath the traveler's feet,
And the journey seems halted.
The traveler walks on and on without moving forward
And yet cannot turn and retrace their steps to make
A new choice.
Even when the road is smooth, a pothole of remembrance
Can lie unseen beneath the pacing foot, and the
Traveler will stumble and fall.
A word, a phrase, a snatch of overheard melody,
A chord played on an out of tune guitar, and
The traveler is back in the mind at the day
That the way back was closed so finally and completely.
And on some days, the world is pearlescent and opaque,
Peopled with ghosts, the memories that cannot die,
And that hold the traveler in suspension, apart
And apart from reality.

(c) 2ndwitch, 24/01/18