(i went to the doctor,
… told him i was dead.)
In chambers of white, where shadows dance,
A soul approached, a spectral trance.
The doctor sat with wisdom’s stare,
Inquiring of the ailment rare.
“I come to you with heavy heart,
For life has played a cruel part.
In death’s embrace, my essence lies,
Yet here I stand before your eyes.”
The doctor, wise in healing’s art,
Raised an eyebrow, not to depart.
“A paradox, this tale you weave,
For life and death in one can’t cleave.”
The patient, with a hollow gaze,
Recounted tales of ghostly days.
“Within my veins, no pulse does beat,
Yet consciousness and self, replete.”
The doctor pondered, deep in thought,
A riddle spun, a truth unsought.
“How, then, converse we, spirit kind?
For speech requires a living mind.”
The ghostly figure raised a hand,
A spectral gesture, quite unplanned.
“Though breath may cease, my voice persists,
A wraith with tales, a soul that insists.”
The doctor sighed, his mind perplexed,
Engaged in dialogue complex.
“Tell me, then, what led to this,
A life entwined in realms amiss?”
The phantom spoke, with echoes cold,
Of destinies and stories told.
“Life’s thread unraveled, fate unspun,
In twilight’s grasp, my course was done.”
The doctor, with a measured gaze,
Considered life’s mysterious maze.
“Are you a specter, lost in gloom,
Or just a soul in living’s tomb?”
The patient, spectral and forlorn,
Revealed a truth, in shadows worn.
“I dwell betwixt both realms unseen,
A ghostly vessel, caught between.”
The doctor mused, with furrowed brow,
On realms where mortal meets the now.
In dialogue profound, they tread,
A living doctor, with the dead.
A tale of life and death entwined,
In chambers white, a dance defined.
A poet laureate’s verses soar,
On whispers of a ghostly lore.
01.30.2024
E.P. Robles | Poetry 