by Nick Gisburne
It hit me, hard, a cardiac arrest,
Entirely unexpected for a ghost.
Excruciating torment in the chest,
Then, faster than a ferret, I was toast.
I found myself not heading for a light,
But separating, slowly, from my skin,
And, as my spectre slithered out of sight,
I took my second passing on the chin.
My soul, by some extraordinary fluke,
Inhabits a dimension of its own.
Without a higher power to rebuke,
It seems a phantom’s phantom flies alone.
Absurdly, unambiguously odd,
If I’m the only ghost, perhaps I’m God.
