There’s
a ghost in me. An intimate creature.
I see
wings, feel trauma, as forced isolation.
There is cadence,
uncanny elegance, and mind-drums—as thrumming instruments digging into rhythmic
murmurs after psycho-social outcomes.
The moon has
laughed, over earth’s predicament, where sunshine is vocal.
I have loved or
soared in you so close to dying our curse while fleeing into avenues or cypress
trees where excuses are being delivered—to ensure concerns to cater to
agitators where music is sweet deaths.
I was a late
comer, everyone knew my name, but something needed perfection; glamour in bold,
an erudite letter, or an erudite woman; so removed from me, so into beige
grass, while pieced together.
Pure
turquoise sky-pangs, so many evening coyotes, some are likely to get through;
an eerie noise, a relentless foe, while seated on the veranda; purple lights or
ravishing beauty where a man learns his boundaries; so destroyed those years,
while able to reach, where I get in these moods; but fevers were cold,
relaxation was wild, and I was at something recreational.
—but never forgive
me, while feigning perfection, where creeks are aware of those infractions; as
people laugh at insanity, or curl into knots, while knitted in disbelief; to
whisper about us, to exclaim in fury, where one is obliged to entertain
perversions:
Our Machiavelli
arcs. Our gin with cranberries. Or nights weeping gravely. This instance I experienced,
where Pain was moaning, but it wouldn’t give a reason. This havoc on brains,
this succubus by feelings, while blackmailed into giving comfort—
those years by scars
or screams or both; so useful to no-one, so ruthless unto self, where a man
sees a gift and becomes enamored;
such paining
truth, but Misery needs a friend, while Misery is completely inadequate; this
reality about healing, where most are by a violin,
as coarse,
abandoned creatures. but a file these days, but non-responsive these mornings,
appalled that no-one is at their mirror.
We expect
it isn’t us, we live this way, while it must be them. Or we feel intensely, while
angered no-one is making inquiry, or the few that are, we drain their asses to
death.
But what
is left, in deeper essence, a man feeling like a ghost?
Those
deserted eyes or that penetrative gaze where it takes time to adjust; but once
in that space, it is hell to that person, for we responded to something perceived
in us!
