On Broken Wings

fascinate.
to be shade cast by
the forms of mortal men.
the light cuts around my body,
revealing evidence of times
before my presence.
it fascinates.
or am i ghosts?
without a revelation
walking a moving line.
and when the comatose
is finite i will remember
important details,
or will nonsense
be my explanation?
all out lives are lies,
and when it's conscious,
we'll be dead.