Ghosts

They prance about in the now, their time.

Peering out my doorway at the torrential storm, I can see them, darting and dashing, wailing and splashing,

With a pleasure I shall not know.

They’re ghosts, the ghosts, they certainly must be, their ghastly reign in the times
of rain keep us inside, in the calm quiet shelter, avoid the wet swelter, and we
are safe from them.

Might I suffer a fear of the watery wetness in the stead of something ghastly and
begotten?

Such a fate I’m certainly not in as I cower in fear of the awesome and
severe, the kind that defines me, the kind that reminds me, the kind that is not
for me to know.

The sheets fall hard and show us their flippant runnings-about, two, four, ten at a
time, in wispy weaves they wind, doing their deeds, nerving our grind at
untraceable speeds in protean rind,

Mysterious as they are, their function is there to see, to us, to all, to know who
really turn the seasons and take the harvests, who spin the strings and burn
the forests, the mealy larvae we truly are.

I tremble to write.

But, after all the awe and angst, the probable peace of the Proteans pokes through,
though none have sought to pry, to prod, to prove the profound novelty of the
apparent thesis.

I hope they don’t.

For the eeriness with which a man is stricken is colder than the storm that beckons
him inside, the thunderous stirring of paranoia emanates, vibrates,
menstruates, salivates, and levitates through the endless hallways of his mind
as his jaws, spread wide, scream silence at the fear in front of his endless
cohorts, I beseech thee, Let Me Be.

Let this be the sufficient warn: let still the souls of the dead, the former men, the
outcast ideas, the gatherings of the despicable what-was, and I, too, shall,
much as they must have, learn the expected of a dead It, their diligence, their
efficiency in completing their tasks is too great and obvious to think I shall
not,

So as for now, I huddle indoors and seek things due and ought for living mankind,
for it flutters and fades and blossoms in haze, but to finish fast and
furthermore:

I venture to my frosty work, run beaten mitts through black-white Earth writhing
alive in the slithers of the slight and dead and slightly dead, and soon.

So if the sound and solemn obligation of the dead should shower Life with more
until it pulses again, I proudly crawl amongst the copious, the wormy masses of
blackened flesh, regrets, and I-wishes, for come whoever come who may come who
white and come who black, coming forth from Charon or coming forth from
Aphrodite, I must continue Life, I must continue Death until I might at last, at
long lengthy lasting lubricated Last, hang in the void and know nothing again
for I have been a man and I have conquered it all.

Let the rains fall.