A Substitute For Life

Sitting here,

Soaked in fear,

Of people and their faces.

No-one near,

For me to hear,

The pulse of tiny spaces.

Just this screen,

And inbetween,

The keyboard and the races.

It would seem,

But just a dream,

Full of useless graces.

All that has been,

All that is seen,

Everything interlaces.

There is no gleam,

To this broken scene,

I’m erasing all the traces.

But I’m serene,

And evergreen,

A product of disgraces.

This recurrent theme,

A frozen scream,

While the ghost of me paces.

© M.H.