Ghosted
by your own spirit,
soul stuck in a purgatory
until the facts are faced,
finally-
what then?
Lucid flesh like
apparition, unheard
and in between
pain and suffering-despair
and the need to
continue to breathe
cradling the heartbeat,
insisting endurance
and through it.
There was no There
there,
carbon copies of conceit,
echoing
'I was here'.
Nothing gained
without loss,
as if grief gave more
than it took
of Us
Distorted shadow figures
have mistaken
me
for empty.
Painting by Sergey Vinogradov, dated before 1938 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
