Ghosts of an Ideal Life
This must be the place.
By Tony CavanaghPublished 6 years ago • 1 min read
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this must be the place
for if not—
how are we so—
swathed in dread?
and raw from light?
picking in the space
between chalk-lines
and failed neons
realization came fast
too fast to know it
until the curtain call
shed light upon the script
the grit within the skin
rubs coarse
I'm outside though
separated from
that grain
the dull pain
a reminder
of a life lived
under fear of death
I read a book—
a long time ago
that didn’t quite gel
it spoke about this
in ways I couldn’t know
though it sat
ringing at depths
in hollow rounds
meandering youth
will find its way
strike a match
to light our future dark
we shall pass
illuminated
burning
to recede
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