Irrational Exuberance or Something Like That

Grasping at air as it becomes sparse

Convincing my lungs they're growing weaker

I'm beside him now

Worn from fighting the past

Bruised fingertips hold tighter

In their desperate attempt to poeticize

Anything, everything

So we move further away from the truth

My best conversations have been with dead friends

Or maybe I was just telling myself that

With hands over my ears, eyes wide open, staring at a blank page

We're doing good work

We're doing good work aren't we?

We won't push away the figure

Out of fear that it will also mean ridding ourselves of the ideal

And all we've gained from him

So let's make our praises to our ghost

And through our own truth out