The selfish crowd

Some men are absent from their  heart and flesh

They  inhabit not their  feelings nor their breast

To dine with them is   never  what we wish

I’d rather eat with  genuine holy ghosts.

if we fail to enter into being;

With accident and trauma felt too soon

Or. with a mother tortured and unseeing,

We linger sadly, helpless as her moon.

Is it possible to come home to ourselves

When failure marked our earliest attempts?

Will   love spontaneous ever us dissolve?

When often forced back by our own dissent?

Will night’s darkness  be  more than a  death shroud

Covering  with its cloak the   selfish crowd?