Ghosts of an Ideal Life

This must be the place.

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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Ghosts of an Ideal Life