A ghost, a vision
Of what once was and might
Just be yet again rises
From the Stymian mists,
Threatening,
But not,
To envelop my world,
That glowing ball I hold
Dearly, preciously,
Cautiously,
In my hand.
I really need to start writing more.
Once I was told to let go
But I thought I already had.
How do you really know if you've let go
of something you never had a grasp on
anyway?
Fly like Superman,
Leap like Batman,
Fight like Wonder Woman,
But is it ever really good enough?
What do they do really?
Humanity is not improved by their contributions.
Superheroics only ensure the status quo.
But I can't help but love them.
I'm one of them.
I want to be them.
I am them.
They am I.
He speaks such eloquent French.
My tongue refuses to move like that
no matter what my will commands.
But he's gone now.
I just hear echos.
Was he ever really here
as I surmised
or was it all just a figment
of my immense (yet not altogether impressive) imagination.
"Soulever la capsule."
He read those words once,
Spoke them aloud,
But not now.
Like all, he fades
he fades
Like mist.