The Holy Ghost

Like a barrel scraped raw — drained dry —
Purged to the last drop —
But what truly spilled out
When something still clings
Unspilled, unyielding —
A ghost in the hollow frame
Haunting this slack, stubborn skin

Even if torn wide —
What could be seized, dragged out
Clawed through empty air —
And even if something’s caught
Where would it be flung
How far must one go

It follows, relentless
Mocking each step
Throbbing, pulsing, watching
Lingering, unceasing

Hurl yourself into fire
Off a cliff, into black water —
Maybe that’s the way
To break its grip
Break its face, leave it blind

But then —
Who would be left to know
If it worked —
If the plan went your way

Whether the ghost still lingers
Or burned away —
And it wasn’t just your eyes
It tore from your face
And the skin — it stripped, and cast away

And if it lingers
Then you’ve lost —
For giving your life to free it
From the sack of your skin

And if it doesn’t —
Then it was only an apparition
A reflection inside the barrel
Of something you were —
And would be
Always