The Ghost Rush
All is not lost. We are
not all ghosts, even as
the world burns. I hurt
or heard something I did
not explode or experience.
I meant this, but that was
a minute ago. Now I sit
parched upon a scorched
blunder. Under what used
to be trees or stars. Aw,
heck, I lost my invitation
to the party. I wipe my
bleary eyes and hunch
into a crooked scrunch
to ponder over theories,
remembering first the
bust of the boom.
How high we rode
each arc until how
fun we fell like
rollercoasters.
