The biggest difference is the light.
The Moon now penetrates my flesh.
My bones are glass against the night,
My blood and veins glisten in a mesh
To delineate my frame.
My whole world is not the same.
I pass through walls as through a mist.
Trees and plants are my solidity.
I can touch them – they resist
And form the limit of my reality.
All else is vapour – people, animals and artifacts.
I am reduced to vegetable contacts.
Every moment my mind requests,
“Why am I here in ghostly guise,
What superbeing jests
With me in this state?” But surmise
Gives no solution why I survive
Any more than those alive.
Spectres are, I suspect, quite rare.
I thought I spotted someone last year.
I ran to see. No one was there.
I waited days for him to re-appear.
It is a lonely thing – to be a ghost,
To be kind of alive – almost.
I try to talk to people, children, beasts.
They retreat in fear – speed away.
Or else, in horror, cry out for priests.
So I sit alone at night, come what may.
I watch the Moon and stars, contemplate
This odd afterlife, watch fireflys, speculate.