The first time I saw ghosts, they came as my ears popped and light shone on dark, seeing all the smiles of people I’d left repressed and unfulfilled behind my trail, in my wake, while I slept.

It isn’t enough ti desire but to want to train to desire a naturally (or unnaturally) unattainable for and/or hind- sight, besieged by a deformed morality that lands on my foot like the most unwelcome of insects in a summer garden.

Shoe it away and chase it off, forever wandering to wonder what it thought as it stood so brazenly in the shadow cast by a giant insignificance.

Would I drown in this endless ocean I wished to sink in, or would I merely float- a fate worse than death, the dead sea being a living instance of that death of imagination – and ironic that it relaxes even the most dramatic of us thoughtless few.