L'aura del Campo

Waiting room

I whisper across the waiting room
as if my thoughts can't be heard
by the ghosts that gather there, under
the covers of dust and undreamt
fears the roamed through my life.

I don't know yet that I'm one of them,
dearly departed, soon to be missed, already forgotten.

I mumble in a hush to not wake the dead
who still remember when I could run,
too shy to dance, too shy to speak,

too fearful to look in mirrors
that can't reflect my nothingness.

There is no hurry, no urge to move on
from a place where I never lived.

© Kåre Enga 14.desember.2025

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