It is difficult to tell
the frauds from the real thing.

Am I a ghost caught on tape,
choreographed to walk through

time's dark tunnel, a ray of light?

Am I tired of life and all its beauty,
hands pressed desperately against thick glass?

We are separated from each event
by courage; who survives the night,

who prays despite desire.

In the window the candelight
lures the moth; it too is fooled

by imitations.

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