Split

I am half a ghost.
I wander in-between the houses,
checking that the walls are far enough apart.
Those solid walls,
too solid, too straight;
I keep far from them
and try to forget I can walk through.
I try to speak, my every word a formula,
rigorous as a line out of Euclid.
I speak, and who understands?

I am half a slug.
I would be a cockroach,
except I'm not organized enough.
I want to dissolve into the earth
and see all the walls turn into dust.
Some nights I sleep in peace
and lie in dreams of oneness.
There I melt into the air
and become more fully the nothing that I am.
But the ghost disturbs my days and nights.

Sticky. Sliding. Sucking.
Haunting. Hunting. Calculating.
Tell me, old philosopher,
how do you like your matter and form?
Spread me on your table of elements.
Classify me.
Show me the rigor.
You'll die one day, you ghost,
but I am the shame
that has no end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Would you care to take a look at my Facebook page?

If you enjoyed the poem, it would mean a lot to me if you could share it with your friends. Thanks!

(Photo credit: "Slugs" from Andy Rogers on flickr)