Ghost Song
Here at the lighted edge I stand
reaching disembodied hands,
stopped as by a wall of glass
through which I see but cannot pass,
like a bird stopped by a window pane
who pecks and claws the glass in vain.
Inside the light, small figures move--
those whom I loved, but should not love--
lost in their sad, enchanted maze
of fleeting pleasures, fitful praise.
Why do I stand here, held by this
world of incarnate foolishness,
feeling for what I cannot feel,
grieving for griefs not even real,
back turned on those vast, windowed skies
behind which beckons Paradise?
Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie