Something I have been working on:

Process of Decay

In the apartment of synapses and waves
Is where the ghost resides, not quite
Haunting but lurking, not so active
As unemployed with not much else to do
There is nothing new for it to build upon
It sits on its single man futon or
Ragged chairs in front of a glowing screen
Scattered remains of paper and dirt cover
The unfinished hardwood floor like so many
Years of ripped up carpeting:
	
	But you're writing in a dead medium
	
Not dead, but idle just as the memory
Of spindly arms and legs collapsing in
On themselves intermingling with your own
Knocking knees together in a cacophony of
Sexual mutterings never knowing that soon
Pretense would reveal itself to you the unfathomable
Words came from terse lips drawn thin and
Cracked with dry desert cold not the heat
Of the summer; it was a drastic change in temperature:
	
	But you're speaking to a dead audience
	
For some reason no one hears the clamors
Of obscurity coming from the apartment
And compartments of that particular speech
Likened to explaining complex equations to
Students that were once given tools to
Solve them but they never kept them as a
Result they are left wondering what they could
Do to save themselves from failure while the
Ghost sits and revels in its power to linger:
	
	But you're believing love is dead
	
Or that it never really existed and was
An ideal conjured up from mediums that funnel
Themselves into the apartment like peace and
All of the other fundamental causes that seem
To wearily persist because someone is always spilling
Them from their misinformed cardboard signs
Paper flyers, electronic words, and newscasts
Replacing iconic yet archaic soapboxes like
The poet that can't write anything else:
	
	But you're not dead:
	
Just aging at more rapid speeds than
Perhaps you would like, picking up the tools
That never made it past the brink of
Adolescence, the tools you brought from that fault line
Were only ways to shape thoughts into words
From a blinking cursor on a screen
Not yet surfeited with the knowledge of the past
The ghost waits to materialize again, though
Only the dilatory keeper of time will be
Able to reveal to you what it has behind a burgundy
Curtained stage of unfinished wood floors and apartments