Where the Young Ghosts Live
by Michael David Jones
There is, on the southern side of campus,
an old building bound in brick and shaped stone,
enwreathed in the verdant greens of tall trees,
planted in some past that I have not known.
The doors, that dark brown of once-felled lumber,
open slowly, stalwart soldiers in spite
of wind and water from Heaven above
and chills of frost in the depths of the night.
When this grand place empties, becomes a tomb,
footfalls find their places in verse and song
as the chambers remake themselves, a home
for the poets who keep the lamp’s light strong.
I am numbered among them in these days
as we haunt these halls and I learn their ways.
an old building bound in brick and shaped stone,
enwreathed in the verdant greens of tall trees,
planted in some past that I have not known.
The doors, that dark brown of once-felled lumber,
open slowly, stalwart soldiers in spite
of wind and water from Heaven above
and chills of frost in the depths of the night.
When this grand place empties, becomes a tomb,
footfalls find their places in verse and song
as the chambers remake themselves, a home
for the poets who keep the lamp’s light strong.
I am numbered among them in these days
as we haunt these halls and I learn their ways.
Michael David Jones is a poet and storyteller from Las Vegas, Nevada. He is currently pursuing his MFA at the University of Nevada, Reno.