Ghosts

i'm writing reports of the days and the nights.
locked up for years in a measure of mind.
when with a net of nothing.
i was trying to catch the motions of a mind.
and the methods of a crime. i never saw the chance.
and never what i held in my hands.
the lights are all red in this town.
where i'm killed by exhausts.
and alcohols that dry out my skin.
i never had a clue of the role that i played.
but that's the condition and the price that we pay