Indian Rug Poem by Mark Heathcote

We are ghosts in the cities of our own minds
trying hard to remember who we truly, are
look, there's that old fraying one-eyed bear
and here is a lock of my grandmother's hair
we are glimmers in the haunts of our minds
trying hard to remember who we truly, are
see, here's that Indian rug, I prayed would fly
would fly me away, to a place I'd never cry.
We are ghosts in the cities of our own minds
trying hard to remember who we truly, are
look, here is a faded Polaroid of my firstborn
oh, now I begin to remember, recall
but how much of my old self has been outworn?