THIS GHOST by Donald L. Simons

The roads I walk do not lead anywhere now, not even to the end.   And the people I pass are all me.   The only way I can get here is by not being here.   I have come upon it many times, this place that is no place, each time as if the first time, always the last time.   A map was handed to me once more, the same map with the same roads going nowhere, except that there are fewer of them now.   What happens when there are no more roads?   It means that there are no more roads.   As for the hour here, it is all one hour, the same hour.   I found God this time, although not where I thought I would find him, not in death, not in this death.   But now who is this who delivers the map to me each time?   I have believed it was myself always, but it is not, not yet. Standing over myself  I am only corners now. Calling after God   I saw God in the hallway and called after him, but all he would say was that he never p...