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.