Hungry Ghosts

Hungry ghosts are all around.

in the hunger for perfection,

a greedy one,

makes me go back and

correct endlessly,

the one that stops the flow and thinks thinks thinks till my ears explode.

this one wants the right spelling and gramar

now,

it won’t permit key stroke errors.

that hungry ghost eats me everyday.

It wants to eat my whole entire life,

seasoned with inanity and the details, purposeless without the sweetly flawed flow of a genuine canvas to express its artful corrections on.

Yes, hungry ghosts are everywhere.

they are pushing delicately thoughts of past times over and over into now

remembering when she did this?  And i did that?

enveloped in those soft grey places, quicksand pulling us life-less through years and years and years

My grandfather was swallowed by the hungry mud in Lancashire, early last century

pulled out by a passing man and his walking stick.

without whom

there would be no I to ponder being alive

in this body; this time

Pulled out, he was given the chance to live.

So too I, and We

sinking, connected, calling out

For the stick that saves us is

Within

and

Without.

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