By Jaxob Ophiuchi

"Too Hungry, These Ghosts"‍

Reality is too real for us

So we temper it with thoughts

Caught up in the myth of "me"

Hustling ghosts

Into believing in us

Just a pile of old sheets

Just a hamper of dirty costumes

The posthumous identity

Can't conceive

How preposterous

This idea we're believing in is

Don't you see it?

We're made out of dirty laundry

And it becomes crystal clear

That even were we to clean our worn out suits, these

Roles we wear are out of fashion

The emperor wears no clothes