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