I polish ghosts into a golden age,
the past appears the way I need.
Where I reside is carved on the page,
walls erected outline my screed.
So many names dissolve into the dust,
a lifetime’s work reduced to yellowed ink.
One path is quietly being discussed,
another burns alone beneath the drink.
Stitched a self from fragments within,
a life becomes the story that remains.
Bus rides through the snow become a hymn,
breathing softly in the smallest pains.
Is artistic dedication noble
or just self-imposed isolation?
The mystery is solved inside the story,
but the mystery itself is an illusion.
I’m not sure what prompted it but the title of Seth’s comic It’s A Good Life If You Don’t Weaken has been in my mind recently. Not having read it yet I investigated the story and themes and came up with this write. Intrigued, I’ve also pushed this book higher up my to-be-read pile, which changes often.
1994ever 