Boxed

Locked away so long,
slipping out alongside
sheepish tears: ghosts
covered in the dust of
years and the debris
of their concrete cells.
Sharp edges leave
jagged holes in my heart.
I am left breathless,
but do not know if it
is from their absence
or from the punctures
their hasty exodus
has left in my lungs.
Speaking his name:
Mike. Michael.
Regret. Remorse.
(Relief?)
Regardless, it is done.
And now…what?
Wrestle them back
into their chains,
allow them to float
freely amongst the
living? Will they wreck
havoc? Will they rest?

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