A Ghost Song

Days are like wind chimes
floating on the breeze.
So much that is forgotten
is forgotten.
So much that is remembered
haunts this waking dream.

This is all that was ever offered
meagre and bare
a few small moments
made precious
by careful considered memory.

Go now and this will remain
as shapes
left to gather dust,
a room no-one enters.
A door always closed
curtains drawn.

Draped dust sheets turn
furniture into ghosts
haunting
what was once a living room.

So this becomes a tune
played in an empty room
only the dust ever dances
only air moves
sound fades like the memory
of fingers brushing keys
before the plain white sheet
shrouded the piano.