I don't know what year

but somewhere out there

on the road

I became a ghost

trapped

in a decomposing body

that listens too often

at the intersection

of perpendicular 

and time

travelling somewhere

my feet can't be

fractured between 

the here

and there

my heart missing in action

somewhere

even I can't find

marking time

dancing with the pretty

and the light 

far beyond the fingers reach

and all I have left

to get me by

are the stories 

that make a person's 

lost child cry

with neglect 

of their own humanity

and my need to see the ones

whose hearts have not deserted

like partisans gone 

in the middle of the night

and never coming home

still young and far too old

the way fascism

forges the poets into tribe

the dimensions cannot contain

with feet on the ground

and fists in the air

rotting around their spirits who cry:

we only wanted to love

what the fuck 

are we all doing

here

Strange that this should come a few hours before I heard of Cohen's ascension. After I read it back I had The Partisan stuck in my head. Was the song in my head when I read the news.