Huh, I barely remember this poem!
It just popped up in the process of reorganizing my documents after migrating to Mac. I’m a writer, not a poet, and I regard any poem that I topically or accidentally compose, and which is not intentionally satirical, is derivative of some poetic style or other by default. It creaks & grates, and it sounds like song lyrics but I at least remember that it wasn’t written for a song. But that’s all I can remember, and I have only the most vague idea about what it could possibly mean or be about.
Let’s meet where all them angels dwell
with money changing hands;
Where superstition haunts the haunted
ones with heart-shaped blanks.
Then walk along this disconnected
line to where it bends,
Toward the gentle reach where no one
shows up in the end.
Yet laughter-woven ghosts create
themselves with sudden skill
To weave sophisticated views
from April window sills.
If you have something valuable to add or some interesting point to discuss, I’ll be looking forward to meeting you on Twitter!