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