Neighbor

[tommy's ghost]

Surrounded by morose mourners
This bed is made by death.
Tucked in by harp players or scythe connoisseurs,
Does it make a difference?
Christ, these people look worse than me
And it's not them who can't breathe.
Like a snake sneaking out of its skin,
I start to peel off of my corpse.
I can see it, its eyes beckoning.
I'm so over life. Adios.
I think I'll rent a loft
Amongst the soft, albino rocks
That litter this tenuous shade of sapphire
That pulsates with the modern-fire
Of the street, car, traffic, and house-lights.

Yeah, I'll rent a loft.
I'll sleep on water-vapor pillows
Lined with silvers and nines.
I'll warm myself with
The blushing of the sky.
I'll have flying guests and horned burglars,
But I'll be neither;
Just their neighbor.