Hauntology

The hauntings grew in me. In war I attend

ghosts, not always my own. We honor

the distance, these words stitched

through a flog.

These are podium times, my friend. Nonetheless,

I dreamt a gothic resolution, literature as a roadmap.

I am sorry art will not save us. The canvas

burns easy as paper now. We exist on lines, a

crossroads game. What you save is what remains.

Unnamed, our ghosts become less than bones.

I would like to tend more than graveyards now.

Forgive me. I am still young

like that.