Ghost Of My Presence

By Vidhutma Singhania

I hope

at the descent 

of my final fall

I let the cables loose

off of telephone poles

so tall,

fill my lungs

with the crisp breeze

of an early winter morning,

remember the blue of the sky,

house a scream,

a loud cry,

talk about every 

tinge of color

I left on life.

So that, when

the ghost of my presence 

haunts this realm 

it doesn't pay visit

to the places I've been,

but the trenches 

I left empty.

By Vidhutma Singhania