The Truth Will Make You Free?
Would a hatchet between my eyes
Let the ghosts fly free
From inside my head
Out into the cosmos?
Would they then find a home
On some distant planet?
Or, would they feel more at home
Inside a supernova?
And if, as some say,
Ghosts incinerate in stellar furnaces,
Would the stench fill the spaces
Between stars and photons
Until even God and angels
Are soiled and besmirched
With human stink?
And though they would like to flee,
Ghosts congregate still — -
Swarming like flies over putrid wounds
Around the faults of a heart of flesh
With its broken desires and uneventful days.