Among the dead, we are curious. We are haunted. You scream for ice cream, and we scream out of loneliness. Walking the halls of death leaving no footprints or shadows. At times tossed out with the trash, once scented, now lost. As ghosts, we have no pedigree or degree in philosophy. We fail to exist unless in someone's conversation about passing and leaving a Will. We feel no rain or April Showers. We are the weeds of the unremembered. The dust on a shelf or the sound of neglect as the cat looks around for the sound. We are not fatal because we are dead and there is nothing generic to replace the sticker on the urn, but the ashes do dry out and need some loving, but that's too much to ask. Now I am my own Ferris Wheel or rainbow.