Rift of Rose

It’s a hammock of black evening
You sway in, trying to remember
Only enough to draw the paper

Over your thoughts for a thin blanket
In equally black ink, leaving roughed
Paper imprints for deciphering,

To scribble all over, every inch
A life, a torn scrap of memory.
When a safe place is taken away,

The question remains, are there others?
What is left, what is left for us now,
That we can do, that we may have to?

Can you wake up your phantoms for us?
Can we believe in phantoms, again?