Call it what you want

Can you call it a mistake when you knew it was
And did it anyway?
Can ghosts of the near-living and not-quite-dead
come to haunt the weekend tweakers
and do-it-yourself damned?

When you can’t find pity even in a mirror
And your own songs go down like glass in your gullet
Your poetry pulls up stakes
Hushed, like gypsies under harvest moons
Rolling on to find more fertile grounds

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