'Ghosts'

Ghosts and empty spectres rise beautiful, but hollow,
To form the world before my eyes
Demanding that my mind unquestioningly swallow
Everything it sees as truth instead of lies.

A thousand wraith-like shrouds of air,
Draped in shapes of men and other things,
Specters whose insides bear no essence of what is really there,
No angels here at all, just tangential brushes
Of insubstantial wings.

The world tries to spirit from the mind, deliver to the eyes
The poisonous illusion of the veracity of form.
So I close these two imperfect traitors and I feel
Instead of see this empty dream
Into which I have been born.

The truth is all inside this tiny cup of carbon-clay
That rides atop this cruelly vulnerable angel-
An angel of this mortal plane of lonely nights and lonely days-
This earthly plane of ghosts that dance before the orbs of sight
And claim in tones more desperate with every moment
To be the very essence of my life.

But my life, it burns with unimaginable fury,
Inside this tiny spheroid prison made of bone,
A citadel of passion shining purely,
Like Nike in ascension rising from a sea of ghosts
Glorious and conquering, but forever all alone.