On Being a Ghost
Tell me you’re content.
The poet is what you want?
(The poet is what you get.)
Death’s demise is no surprise
for life’s disguise.
Cease the words!
Cease the pain!
Don’t remind the composer
he’s insane.
His eyes are Fury,
maybe Hate,
I keep pretending
to defy fate.
It’s just a mask, you see.
When I pull it away
you’ll find
nothing
underneath but bones.
Neurosis is just a ghost.
Haunting himself
while he sleepwalks
and hallucinates
throughout the day.
He sees hues of honor,
and shades of shadow
though he still manages
to smile:
even he can’t figure
himself out.
He’s Keats at his death,
Schubert in depression,
a man so great, so talented,
yet completely
broken.
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