BETWEEN DAYS

I am
between reflections
and blindness
in the wasteland of suppose.
A vagabond
having a passport
only good
at places
I’ll never visit.
Still
the air is pure
with weather
amiable to my soul.
So I trudge
along the paths predestined
dogged by a shadow
of the ghosts of ignorance
who lust to possess
all the deeds
to my being.