They blink, they parrot, their eyes nervously seek for
an escape from responsibility, from judgment, from being.
The taste of licorice, the taste of brown sugar
lingering in the mouth long after the meal.
I can still hear them hymning under their breath.
Sleep is up and down a staircase.
The older ones moving more slowly
under the additional weight of ghosts.
We love what we don't
know about them.
The secret to having it all
is to acknowledge what is,
and only what takes forever
takes as long as you think it will.