Sometimes when I wake up
in the dark of the night,
not sure if I myself want to believe,
I wish I could tell you what I see,
sights that transcend logic and fantasy.
The phantom of sequestered fears
in a shade of gray,
stirs unsure of the smile
lurking at the corners
of its smoke-stained lips,
jeering it seems as it lisps.
The spirit made of jelly,
scorning ethics with a cultivated folly,
fidgets with subtle shifts
in its numb fingertips
beckoning me to join on its
flexibly venal fickle trips.
Then there’s this specter made of
a forgotten shame that rustles
on the rusty remnants
of a conscience, of regrets,
scouring the tarnished memories
exposing guile and my polished lies.
They appear shocked for a moment
when they find me staring,
making me wonder if it’s me
or are they the ones having the visions,
is this all playing in my head, they ask
for who is living and who is truly dead,
who is sleeping and who out of the bed.
When I go about acting as the world expects of me,
mornings when I feel it’s going to be a lovely day.
The phantoms and the specters of night
exist in my mind, I say.
Figments borne out of the insane
starry dreams and moonlight beams.
Then comes another night waking the rebel,
when they come without fanfare, with no care,
stark contrast with the people I met that day,
people who have stopped feeling when they are touched,
without expectations they help but can no more empathize,
they acquiesce without shedding the pretense of being wise.
These ghosts of the night however are naked as truth,
detached, they act like what they appear to be.
Tranquil and wavering only in the visual form,
they suggest maybe when I will take off the mask,
this body, the face and knowledge in which I bask,
I will join them and be what I was meant to be.
Resisting temptation I wake up to yet another day,
working and mingling with my comrades of daylight
as they move, lost, feeding on each others pity
striving to acquire possessions and fame for immortality.
I see in them the reflection of what I have become,
or are they pretending, and will be human when I am gone.
I wonder if along with them I am living my life,
or the lives living us, without us realizing our strife.
Do we write our stories,
or do the stories choose us.
If these ideas have always been around
before they find a prey and strike us.
No wonder even love just happens,
it’s not two people at random that fall,
love chooses us in no way different
than how this weird world with its people did.
Feeling helpless I go off to sleep much late at night,
wishing for the morning sun to come soon,
before I wake up for them to be gone to the moon.
My friends of the night faithfully visit, but with concern,
they make me calm and soothe me to sleep feeling at home.
Among my trusted, loving and the living dead,
I hope that the night never ends as I realize
how its the living ghosts of the day that I truly dread.