Ghost in the Machine

There were days
Melissa measured
her happiness in brightness,
when she would hold
her hands over her eyes
and the cracks of sunlight,
like old paint on drywall,
would shine through
to let her know exactly
who it was that held her.

Who is it?

And at that moment of recognition
Melissa felt…

...she felt okay.

More than photons
reflecting off of totem shells,

humanity is conch-cradled
in her dusk where light perception
is limited to the moon, where blind
is a swear word and an oath
dependent on a circadian
arcade: she is blind
and going blinder.

Lingering,
she allows herself a curfew
to blow out the lantern
and sing without color
for the first time.

Melissa,
you rely on a perfect balance—
trusting the sunshine to smile
on your bare arms at eight a.m.,
two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,
letting the moon comfort you
as patchwork clouds shawl over
midnight's studded shoulders,

leaving behind aspects of life:
natural, mundane, mechanical,
and self-made doubts.

Don't forget you swallowed
sunshine long ago.

It lit up your eyes from within,
and we’ve been bathed
in the glow

of little condolences:
the sound of laughter
easing the emotions,
the touch of a smile
in a tender moment

The senses balance:
and compensation may mean
chasing ghosts for
their shadows.

When all else fails
the last glow
of light in your heart
of a limp hope means
you are not a ghost
with thoughts left to voices,
tenuous and transient,
in photos shot in the dark.

The backlight of your retinas
retained in your pupils
is a spark instead of glitching,
switching that’ll break the circuit
penetrated by the prayers of songbirds
who live off of bronze medals, silver
linings, and golden opportunities.

Fading or fleeting,
advancing or retreating
from battle save for a soldier,
one single circuit-switch spark
away from somehow still igniting,
burning through asphalt drapes
‘til—
Until—

—a life of your love
is all that’s left to see
and shines brighter when
falling into place; always.
Always believe in what you
will do, have done, are doing for
your dreams, your desires
and what is meant to be—

because what is meant to be
if not what you meant to mean?

—hold ‘em or fold ‘em,
but take ‘em when dealt;

no one has promised that
gripping what is shaking
will help held hopes last.

Provoke past foes,
but let the bullet elide
with a muttered remark
on syllables of scrutiny
when it slides past;
a mutiny, a shot in the dark.

Clockticks from now you’ll change—
change out of eyesight to survive,
but survival of the fittest
always seemed a bit skewed
in history books to whoever pulled
the trigger one last time,

but until your voice crackles
through the radio and shouts back,
“let them make me a ghost, let them—”
the faster finger and slower talker
will continue to pull that trigger
in stories they tell their grandchildren
about how— about how you weren’t
a warning shot in the dark.

Blind and going farther,
the internal cavern
will always call for you,
the craters of the moon

changing the tides endlessly
breathing throughout your being.

But in forgotten dimensions:
rust.

Rust on a machine pneumatically
never losing sight of inhalation.
But you can.

You could just
stop.

When the soul controls vitality
you will always be a visionary.

But you don’t stop breathing,
do you?

No. The pa-pump, buh-beat
of a drum beat seeking out
shooting stars and dreams;

your world of bus rides,
late-night talks, hope rising
in prayers in evening traffic,

giving love at first song
in twelve words shows
that your eyes are not
like ghostly machines, that:

the way you see it the hourglass
can surrender to the moon.

When lost between
the alpha and omega
you momentarily purge,
converge on a purgatory
in your singing voice.

Your voice is a comet
shot across the night sky,
a shot in the dark
to find your way home
from who you are.

You don't need your eyes to see
that a buckshot of liquor
across the port bow is
a victim shot in the dark;
that one shot in the dark
is worth being part of
two ships passing in the night.

You don't need your eyes
to wander away from
who you aren’t.

Because home is
a palm on your face;
light is the lips you trace
in the mute speed of sound.

The braille pearl of your smile
folds into you fury-filled;
in this semicolon utopia
you molt feathers for scales.

But shed your scales
for feathers and flight

and take a shot in the dark.

There is no need to aim, you will always spook
a ghost in the machine with enough noise.

Contributors

camelopardalisinblue - lines 68, 70-71
callerofcrows - lines 22-23, 26, 32-33
chromeantennae - lines 136, 141, 146-147, 153-154
LionesseRampant - lines 119-128, 137-140, 143-144
Edges-to-Everything - lines 56-63
FuzzyHoser - lines 30-31, 45-47
GuinevereToGwen - lines 78-79, 84-91
haphazardmelody - lines 49-54, 64-65
Medoriko - lines 67,69, 95-98
nawkaman - lines 2-3, 19-20
Nichrysalis - lines 12, 24-25, 27-28, 34, 74-77, 102-103, 112-115, 129-135, 148-151, 156-157, 188-193, 212-215
rlkirkland - lines 93-94, 99-100, 105-110, 116
Sammur-amat - lines 175-178, 199-210
Serentic - lines 1, 4-10, 14-17
SurrealCachinnation - lines 72-73, 80-82
Synesthi - lines 179-187, 195-197
TristanCody - lines 159-173
betwixtthepages - lines 36-43