Ghost

CWK

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 ghost, how.

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.