She – I stare through;
yearning to quell, so acutely innumerable: the specious romances.
She – pallid;
She – transparent;
the one whom
I fear most.
I plead! “I ache to know the real you.
Yet colors truest shall never bleed through”.
Damned, verily vacant: these glass eyes.
These glass eyes, slowly rise to expose loathsome lies.
They bleed: “The truth, so dismal, is but a numb thing;
in the end…we’re all compensating for something”.
She glides, the ghost – icily, ever discreet;
ebbs in and out of forsaken lives;
those of quiet desperation treasure deceit.
Why dost thou specter? Haunt my life, plague my dreams?
Not of flesh, neither of spirit, nothing exists as it seems.
Faux being! Pale apparition! We beg a leave of loneliness!
We birth the ghost of callous coldness!
Reasons none but to validate one’s inane existence.
an ashen anemic cowardice,
a mendacious parasite’s host.
Live the lie,
deceive the most:
be the ghost.
05/13/2015 Tony Blau Veldt