All the old ghosts are one.
From a distance, their faces
merge into one familiar,
fatherly look. They build up
the wall as high and dear
and impenetrable.
You learn to recognize it
by and by
as the door is stormed open
and your head droops slow
like a weary insomniac who has
long forsaken any dreaming
and wakes to see,
between words of degradation
and the world of hierachy,
that you are not their equal.
Yes, for your own good,
you are not their equal at all.