ghost artist

despite the notion
that I know how death lurks in the spot
where my favorite things used to be
the wonderful oilbased soul

against assertions from myself that wind blows through a cold thumbhole on an empty pallet
I still move my fingers in strange patterns on the wall

even with the knowledge that these symbols mean nothing
or at least
an understanding that the
possibly fractured
disparity of the wounded mind brings
I paint
perhaps just out of habit