I saw a ghost on a mans back and it was wild and waved madly like a ceasefire flag.
This man, this sad old young-man was too young for his wild ghost and too old for his age.
This ghost he had, held on with an intensity, with murder and malice in it’s heart.
This ghost wanted this young-old man to pay for his sins and the sins of his father and all those before and after him.
We drove this way down the high way while ghost pounded, scraped, clawed away at his back. As this young -old man strained to smile the ghost was winning. It was winning this war.
I went my way and he went his but I still think about this young-old man.
That young-old man could still be out there fighting the good fight, wresting with his ghost. I feel like fighting for him. Helping the wrinkles on his face relax and feel the claws let go and ride another’s back until they grow old.