Ghost Have I become

 

 
Raw and surreal is that world. Most try to believe that the world of broken dreams and nightmares doesn’t exist. They look down from there abode of high rise steel and plaster offices, speaking in hollow statements with their rehearsed concern. He is the hopeless heroin addict, always dressed in a long sleeve shirt to hide his deformed arms. He looks but never sees.  He is like the mannequin standing in a picture window at

Saks 5th Avenue. He dresses like a man, stands like a man, but he isn’t a man and never will be.
 
The whore in the frayed stained yellow dress, those years past she wore to her prom with dreams of hope and desire. She was going to have a different life then what she had been given.  Her mother blamed her little girl for the loss of her own freedom, a freedom which she never had. Her father told her he loved her, as he touched her in ways that made her cry till she never cried again.
 
          It is a place of forgetfulness. The drug addict, the rapist, the whore, and the dealer. All with their stories of loss, some true and some not. But what about the one that comes at night to fuck the whore instead of his wife? To dream again, to feel passion rushing in his groin, he takes the risk of being exposed as a traitor to his family, to his church, to his country club. Our society tells him that he should be fulfilled; you need nothing else in your life they say. “Lies, lies,” you scream, “my heart and soul have been taken long ago.”  Ghost, have I become—not in hell, not in heaven. At least the whore knows she is a whore.
 

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