Becoming A Ghost

Poem By Ray Mesa

Stray sidewalk, Shadows and garbage cans
Strangers walk by like ghosts
A poor man puts out his hand
No one seems to know what matters most

Silent Street, except for the sound of steps
From the poor man looking for a meal
Two dark figures viewed from the moon's crest
A sudden handshake, seals the deal

A car passes, some leaves brush along the road
A haunting wind crawls under the tires
All the homes reek, of eviction notices and mold
The poor man limps so limber, so mild
The streets are so cold
Hugging the poor man like a blanket on a child

And in this moment, we see the world we know
It goes, in motionless step and bound, in a highlighted glow
It's not the money; it sure as hell ain't the people that matter
To heaven, our only latter
Is the silent ness of getting along
The hallow final seconds of any and every song
It's what matters most
When we put a gun down, and become ghosts

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