By Fabrice Poussin
The ghost in his long snowy robe
walked into the room with pompous arrogance
a god of its own making he declared
all truths upon the feeble creature.
Shoulders arched supporting the weight of
another incendiary dusk its gaze seems lost
glazed with decades of forgotten memories.
Presiding over an army of wandering souls
upon a vinyl throne the thing grimaces still
blinded by the blade of shining steel wheels.
Another apparition floats into the holy domain
armed with an encyclopedia of certainties
nodding to its accomplice knowing of all destinies.
They assess the creature pulling at clichés
to define, decide and conclude at last that
this body no longer matters in the world of
the living devoid of concrete intelligence now.
Poor devils they are as the grimace freezes
deep inside a man strives in his glorious realm
glad to be ignored by the shrieking voices
he is surrounded by the myriad of his memories.
The flesh machine has broken down again
its parts lost amid so many adventures
yet he lives as ever before with a new light
if the strange visitors know only death.