recalling my lost,
child-made plans,
(when seeds had then
grown more simple)
i wonder where
my will walked off to,
why my hands are now
sheer and dimpled
i think nothing of novelty,
bear a thin, vapor frame
sucking air through my loose,
clouded glands (it’s a shame)
and i’m not as morbid
as i like to pretend
(as i like to play out in
my head these days)
though despite my time,
however partial,
i still long to witness the road
since i’ve been, i’ve sat,
an insomniac,
an odd, indisposed little ghost