Sunday, July 07, 2013



He is a ghost now; he is a ghost  how?
He lives in ghost town,
and his life merry goes round 
and round  and round – and round 
but his days are in distance drown,
and his songs: music minus sound.
He is ghost; he is a ghost, how.

He is the flip of the coin;
His life is unlived, unexamined, unknown:
like a battle before him, raging, unjoined;
like a seed in hand, waiting, unsown.
His life the one decision he can't postpone
– but he defers deciding.
He beholds his days  from without – 
like trains, in passing; he is not riding.
He holds his life like a doubt
that crushes resolve in a rout.

Truth is to him a castle unkind 
perched 'pon a battlement, with doubt redoubt 
not worth the seeking, with nothing to find.
The world is for him a riddle too stout:
a question he runs round-about:
a knot, not worth the untying;
a mystery, not worth the prying.

His life is the lie he repeats without lying,
with supernal wit, and impeccable timing;
His life is a tear  but, he is not crying:
a fight –  but, he is not fighting;
a court  but, he believes not in trying.

And his path is by riddles beset:
there  but not there  yet; yet
descending up, ever darting down;
dying beggar to wear a crown;
selling his name to buy renown;
he is a ghost now; he is a ghosthow.

He recalls what he cannot forget;
holds what he must soon lose;
risks, but he never makes bets.
His deeds are cold and removed.
His days: foretold, in righteous reprove.
His faith: in proof whate'er he approves;
his acts he enacts with due dying,
then regards them with telescope, sighing,
like passing planes, soaring 'fore his eye
into the far flung hands of heavy sky,
out of sight, and sighting;
he knows the pilot, but he is not flying.
He is an autobiography, but he is not writing.

He is a ghost now; he is a ghost  how?
He lives in ghost town,
and his life merry goes round,
and his days are in distance drown.
He listens – but hears not a sound;
he walks  his toes touch never ground.
He is a ghost now; he is a ghost, how.

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