Haunted

A grey edge sneaks from beneath the tablecloth
A small tug, a sense of human suffering.
Connection,

a loose root.

The tea cups rattle a guilty fanfare,
before they tumble and smash
and thrust us into the immediacy
of this now
where the future has no validity
and our illusion of security is a
blanket of ether borne from the past
bearing no substance save the shadows
of self doubt.