Sometime in October, I walked into Emmanuel
perhaps a little bolder in judgement, but led on
by melancholy, bad idea, some sort of sober trip
like an echo returning back to absorb
overly exaggerated visions of love
and poor choices,
a guilt trip, or... I started to believe
that something was different then, maybe nostalgia
for this ugly plot of land, or those grey seeds
you'd never planned
to grow into a grave, who the **** wants that..
my love, or that guy on stage reading
disappearing, the ghost
seeping quietly into a classroom
and leaving before you have the chance
to close the door.