Mud floor, swan ceiling
Back to the bridges,
back to the river once more.
Mud floor,
swan ceiling:
back home.
Me and a million other ghosts
dream about some past,
some ever fading future,
that won’t ask us
to take root.
No roots
and no commitments:
here to stay
and here to float,
forever.
No more faces,
no more skin -
the hollow of their throats,
the soft hair on their legs and arms:
no more.
Just silent ghosts,
a wrinkling mirror,
between the mud and regal swans -
we linger,
doomed and happy and alone.