I cannot halt

the beaming of

sun rays,

nor quiet

the whisper of winds.

I cannot change

the rising of moon tides,

nor alter

the dance of time.

Am I not simply

these blooded bones?

Red life?

The streaming

of heat

through an icy shell?

Yet,

this cell-filled skin

burns, afire

with living ghosts

infusing me with

the essence of

belief-

hope

desire

passion

fear

Tongues plastered

plastered in dew drops

of sensation.

Flesh,

bred for yearning.

Do our ears not listen?

Do our eyes not watch?

Do lips not speak?

Is all of this

the I

that I am?

Lips, eyes, ears, tongue-

all clamoring for presence

within the red stream of life.

What of the heart?

It beats

in time with the haunted

presence within,

transforming one phantom

into another.

Hope to dream,

desire to pleasure,

passion to drive,

and fear to hope once more.

Are we nothing more

than a cycle of ghosts

and clamoring parts?

Or, are we

the ghosts within,

forcing balance

with the beating

of blooded hearts?

Published on Coffee House Writers