Some people believe spirits encircle us,
carrying grievances, haunting places once
loved, loathe to leave. The sudden cold spot
in that room—you felt it:
Leave this house.
There is nothing here for you. Dead voices echo,
tears and grief and dreams unrealized. Stone
angels weeping with loss; lanes filled with ghosts.
Look at them, and they disappear, shimmering
faintly in the air, shadows visible only from
the corner of an eye as movement catches
your attention, catches your breath. Trapped
in a dream once cherished, trapped in a space
once felt as safe, trapped in confused wish-thinking
about the afterlife: They are not here for you. Nor
am I. You cannot learn about the spirit world
before your time:
Death is not a correspondence course.