Ghost

Wandering with no direction

running from all the pain

and misguided mistakes.

Roaming in melancholy

twisted.

The knife cannot

cut that which is

guazy and immaterial.

Cannot bleed

the broken, wizened heart.

All the things that made me real

I burned

but I’m not even a flame

roaming the earth.

A cold transparency.

Disquiet wearing away the soul.

Searching and seeking things that cannot make me solid again.