The Ghost Game

The echoes of the past grow hushed and silent.
The thwack of a ghost racket on a ball fades with time.
The wind echoes throughout the emptiness of the court.
It dances through the overgrown grass, and
whips through the cracks of the long-forgotten court.
Dateless wooden signs and fixtures erode in the sun.
The pounding rain and the roaring wind slowly rust the
fence that surrounds the desolate court.
The naked poles are purposeless without their nets,
thus making them obsolete and forgotten to time.
Ghost nets have disappeared along with the
long-forgotten reek of sweat and grit of ghost players.
The taste of sweat, a passing memory.
The sensation of a wooden handle being tightly squeezed
in the hands of a player grows obsolete and forgotten.
The erosion of time engulfs the desolate court with
a sad depravity that still echoes back to us
from the recesses of the past, as the ghost game
is still being played as it gradually fades from time.