Walking Ghost Poem by Peter Black

Sweetness and scorn when I wake in a mourn,
Curse the night that held dormant feelings born,
Kissed from the demons; the ghost of what is
Left me say hope in tomorrow now lives.
Begins when I awake with my eyes gleamed
Of the shade and the moons sick feely beams,
But the sun, it rots the day; says, 'What now? '
For truth, that hope like the moon had gone down.
So waking, you look at the one you love,
Or touch the side of their flesh that is numb,
Pray for a tingle, a kiss of clean breath,
But only rot and continuation are left,
For today, tomorrow, a lifetime of years,
To be flicked like hairs pulled off willy pears;
Counting, cursing, touching, beg of the name,
That wears the crest of hope and sounds the same.
So what do I do when I touch my feet
And sense the budding suck of earth: sun's heat;
Lose myself in the spinning of mankind,
Moving half-legged, knees bent, eyes salt dry.