Soul

In 200 years

everyone alive today

will be dead.

The enemies who tore me down

will be frail bones,

the whores who left

before I could wake up to love them

will be unable to move...

But I, I will be a ghost

a vague memory

a whiff of strange perfume

floating through the pages

of forgotten books,

the sound of a keyboard

being struck in the night

while a few citizens of that strange new world

lie awake in fear

of the poltergeistic rhythm

that my words will refuse to stop playing

on a stage before millions, or in an attic

with no one.

Tonight I'm typing

a million miles per hour

and this energy

can never be destroyed

despite whatever lies after the day that the lighting

in my fingers finally burns up, and they are folded

around a rosary

in a casket

before a funeral of grieving family and friends

or a funeral of no one.