So many selves, so many lives,

so many versions.  So many doors

left open to empty houses.

In my own life

I am an awkward stranger.

I wait for the roads

radiated by rain

to fade again.  I watch from

a private window

that follows me everywhere.

It pours the light of day

through ancient walls.

It frames receding faces

that drank from the kaleidoscope.

The moth wing curtains fall

across a plush red empty chair.

My ghost is a drop of sweat

that stares and stares.

It multiplies with a dancer's hair.

The droves descend on graves of mud

and insist on purgatory.

Messages released throughout the maze

tell a different story.

So many lives, so many selves,

all lost in motion.  These shot stars

are the devotion of a soul

gone down to seek disintegrating glory

in the sequel of a black hole

like the skull is the bone that rolls

as a seeker calls the void home

outside that is where the hungry roam

and the emptiness is not alone.