Walking through the house, empty
they hold on to my clothing like curious children
and suddenly I don't want them anymore,
I tell the spirits to run and hide--
flitting into the closet,
slipping behind open dooring,
melting into cushions,
becoming wall paper--
but they never truly leave.
Spirits become what is closest to the truth,
creating the shell of existence,
are they jealous of my livelihood?
Well, it's all a myth, a well written play,
the words on the tongue of a well dressed broad,
each sunrise throws a silk shawl of prayers,
and god shrugs them off not wanting to be bothered.
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