Rolling

Being this stillness within a whirling brain, detached, as thoughts boil over, watching from a 10 mile high view. All these years chasing ghosts; they’re all living with me now, because that's what ghosts do when you kill them. I was aghast of myself, dark times loading bullets behind closed eyes, believing I would be always buried alive. Resurrection is for the catatonic, me, I got hit between the eyes, sucker punched. Life and death came together in a field of non-existence, and yet only there did consciousness bloom. Could be I’m just a clearer sky, one still rolling over graveyards where all the spent volcanoes simmer on - nevertheless still rolling.