Ghosts Can’t Love
(Inspired by White Helmets)
I found comfort somewhere else.
His voice sounds like shattering glass
When He speaks.
He is a ghost when he comes to me,
His soft mumbles flood my dreams as
He delicately places
Hot coals
On my flesh
That I left exposed
While I sleep.
I close my eyes every night
Ready to breathe.
Because the burning holes are so intoxicating
When accompanied by the sweet tone of deliverance
His preaching came sealed tight in a box with no holes
And He traveled the world and
Sent me postcards with the backs filled with
Places I will never travel to.
I just wish I could see the cards without them being concealed.
Because his preaching’s are still in that enclosed box
And I am tempted to rip it open
And see things for face value.
His name is Existence
And oh my God, that’s the ghost I want to be
But I am alive.