Blind

We die; we are killed, we are weathered, are felled, are decayed, We remain living, watching the ghosts that our murders have made We suffer our punishments at unseen, untouchable hands; We write our poetry in languages no one else understands.

I look at you, and my mind is unbound, unfettered in storm Undoing ghost, what were the murders that made such a form? I write myself over once more for your unseeing eye, I look at you, self-written cryptic, and suffer, and die.