Ghosts Are Always on the Road

Through the nights, your ancestors
Always were obsessed with lights,
Learning how to conjure them,

Believing they controlled them
Or themselves controlled by them,
Hearth fires, stars, and satellites.

By the time these lines were formed,
Your ancestors regretted,
Sometimes, owning so much light.

Swarms of them on the coasts saw
No lights but the lights they burned.
Some of them still wanted more.

So how are things with you, now?
Well-lit? Dark? Mysterious?
Lightless, since you don’t exist?