I’m not the only one.

A poem.

It echoes, laced with laughter,
light as a feather,
carried on the wind.
Frivolous guffaws won’t
spackle over the truth:
I think we think we
miss the old you.
Is it hidden in a box,
under layers of dust — 
a dull veneer, particles of your
molted former selves?
Or eaten up by flames — 
a burnt offering on
your altar to nothingness?
I know, now, I’m not alone,
your former radiance
reflected back, shines through
your translucence — my oar
hits the bottom, I see sand,
shallow, shallow, shallow.
I’m not the only one.

Previously published in The POM