Saturday, June 6, 2009

sketchbook: Hauntings

Another late night tacked onto the paycheck, I outlast the moonset. There’s gristle stuck to my mood. It resides deep in the enameled crevasses of my thought. I try to pick it out but only manage to lodge it further. Inevitably the inevitable wants invited in and I can’t help but succumb to the ghost that lingers in my head tonight. Old bones tucked in the closet worn to dust; I almost forgot the physiognomy of my skeleton. Time has done what it promised. Withered bones become a heap of white powder. I thought I could simply sweep it up and be done. I didn’t count on old bone dust disturbed, plumes the air. I find myself ingesting hollow words whispered to me so long ago. Scratchy whiskers rise from the dead and bless my cheek with curses. I am that helpless child all over again trying to breech the caveat between me and the old need to be loved.

2 comments:

human being said...

OMG!
this is pure poetry!

the imagery is so powerful... all your cells can feel it...

and the flow of words... just takes you away...

and it's hard to leave... you are haunted!


love you...

Shubhajit said...

It is indeed a wonderful prose poetry.

You are blessed with good thoughts. move on!