The Only Ghost In Town Poem by Christopher P. P. White

On the outskirts of wherever I've rested my head
On the cold grit and tarmac of a ghost town
At 5am,
The only ghost in town with a phone that's
Absent from a ring and a body without a body
To lie with.

Foxes must have scuttled past with a smirk on their snout and a spring in their step because it's normally them;
Hit by cars and left without anybody to hear their horrendous shrieks, other than the peaceful wind of the silent morn.

I've not felt vulnerability like that since being a kid
Relying on my parents, but the other day I broke down,
On the banks of the hospital with scars, bumps and bruises all over my body and brain unaware I was over.

I was the road kill at dawn; flat out and struggling to find some meaning in my encounter with the darkness,
I look back on that grim period of my life
With terror, fear, sorrow, hopelessness and a sick stomach.

Maybe it was a sign that I should appreciate what I have been blessed with, but blessed by whom I ask? God?
It wasn't a sign. It was one more blemish on the face of reality that I just can't erase—a mark of my failure as a man.

I have given God his quota; I should have hoovered up the bitterness of the weather and let go of everything,
But I've never been selfish and to do that to the ones I'd leave behind would be criminal. I am no criminal.

I will walk into the ensuing black with the beacon I once wrote about and the ideas and words in abundance,
For the roads I intend to walk down are going to grow longer with every step, and I will need a pen with infinite ink and hope.