the Ghost of a good thing, here

i sense the Ghost of a good thing, here–

Who lends its ears,

but has lost the gift of touch–

a privilege for the living–

who never invite the repetitiveness of things 

abandon the Past

the chasing alone is a task–

a long and winding road in singularity–

deemed useless in time 

but what is life and death? 

the Presence lives, unlike a breath– 

Whose heart cannot beat, yet can be felt

let It muster here, forever if It may–

’til time has served to disarray–

’til indecisiveness lends to tears–

’til loneliness begs for the company of–

the Ghost of a good thing, here

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