Ghosts

We all sit in a sofa
placed on a remote place
with a fantastic view
at the landscape surrounding us

This is our haven and our sojourn
we can see and we can listen
we can smell and we can taste
but we cannot touch

And if we ever find the strength
to get up from that sofa
we'll see that the space is too little
for we are surrounded by walls

Walls painted by ourselves
our relatives and maybe friends
and lovers and even by
all kind of teachers and mentors

And the only thing indicating
that there is a real world outside
is the ceiling..
The ceiling which is the sky itself

None can take the sky
away from us nor put
a concrete ceiling above our heads
cause then we would be living in a tomb

And nothing really lives in a tomb
Tombs are places of the dead
And dead people can't feel
or be felt; only their absense

There are few who would tear down
these walls and see the real landscape
Tear down these beautiful paintings
so lovingly -or not- offered by others

A real view at the surrounding world
is offered by none other than the world itself
Billions of humans workings like artists
on the canvas of your mind

And there are others who choose
to stay behind these walls
And their screams and fears
reach out in the night sky

But these people cannot touch, or be touched
they are like ghosts, projecting theirselves
out of the walls, to the sky
but ghosts are nothing else but cursed dead.