(Written while listening to Drift by Brian Eno)

One note hovers above the orchestra,
A ghost with a sustained voice.

Textures of sound –
mostly a murmuring
rises from the audience.

Your disembodied echo
is like an organ on Halloween.
I’m the kind of person,

who walks through graveyards
for the sake of company. I like
to trace the names etched in stone.

Around this time of year,
the violins like to mimic one sound
you used to make.

When they do, everyone claps.
But yours was far more than that.
It was like death in her coffin.

It was like,
A ghost with a sustained voice.

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