Ghost Path (day 3011)

I want to believe that I’m the ghost
Walking through the woods;
One small cackle,
A broken branch,
An index of places been before.
I collapse
And am the definition of un-sturdy
For my limbs are limp,
My eyes deep blue pale,
My skin, the colour of
Ten thousand sins
Washed with a rectangular bar of soap,
And hair touching my shoulders
That feels like spider webs
Through a barely audible path.

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