Faraway And So Near Poem by Stan Petrovich

Don't know how you're receiving this;
I not writing it down.
You see, I'm dead.
Killed slung as a tree stamped me out,40 miles per hour;

Solids are aglow,
And my haze is a timeless rhyme.

Usually I walk through walls, and even appear to a few sensitive folks;
Some days are foggier than the rest,
And I cannot concentrate:
For some reason I'm still in full ski gear (cumbersome) ,
But no longer is the snow cold, at all.

I stumble into an unfamiliar room; it is you I feel;
You don't have the means to turn and look at me:
It's the back of your neck I see...
And lightly begin to touch it.