its my dead life

it's like a ghost.
a ghost that with every step I take into this empty hall
casts an echo towards my own voice
casts a shadow over my eyes
and calls it light to follow by.

it's like a pin prick
in the middle of the night
that wakes me to a darkened, empty room
with no sound
no sound
no sound but my own heart
listening

its like an echo
down the hall
an echo from a voice that isn't there
an echo from a footstep in the wrong direction

it's like a nail
digging into the side of my toe with every step I take
every step I take into my life
the further I walk, the more rust bleeds into my heart.

it's an empty room
a crowded room
a crowded room that may as well be empty without,
an empty room that may as well be full with-
with
with that heartbeat
that whisper
that ever so soft step to my side
past me
away from me...

its my own voice
following me
into some other life
another lifetime
where I've been before
where my voice is the same
but yours is not.

its a cage
with an open door
and a kind gesturing hand
guiding me into the great, open world.
a kind, warm hand for me to rest on if my malnourished wings are too weak,
a hand to strangle me when my cage is out of sight

that echo.
the echo that doesn't go away.
the heart that doesn't beat.
the room without a guest.
the foot-less step.
the voiceless whisper.
the cage with its dead captive

what use is it, my Dead Ghost?

my ghost is a pin-prick, and surely... Nothing more...