Sense and Fake Ghost

Yusuf Achmad

The hand speaks:
Will any soul mark my tale?
No answer comes, only silence prevails.

The nose then whispers:
Press on, though your scent is faint,
Like a fragile note, a memory’s constraint.

The ear, it sees—blurry, at times clear,
A story eternal—yesterday, now, and years to appear.
The hand responds, its motion swings,
Forward and back, as life’s pendulum sings.

The round bright eye chimes in:
Your tale is worn, yet still bides its time within.
And the mute mouth sighs, sniffing cliché,
“A romance restrained, cast in disarray.”

Yes, my right hand, my steadfast mate,
The partner who shapes both love and fate.

The eye probes deeper—does it lie beside you now?
This hand, my lover, my power avow.

Its length speaks difference, yet holds firm,
Hugging me tight, as false phantoms squirm.
I borrow sight to relive time’s passage,
I borrow sound to brave haunted caverns’ message.
I borrow scent to map the essence we host,
A union of senses—a phantom, a ghost.