my ghost in Stormweather Manythings

my ghost slides
to fade once more:
beset by symptoms
of
a life fast
ridden
less tasted
and stricken
by minor plagues of
now and here

then is
but
a slipper lost-left
to cleaners
whisk up
remnants
sweep off time
like many wrappers
left to wind across
the floor

and i
fall to catch
her face
it flies away
my hands
are five dead
fingers much
too short