UNTIL THE GHOSTS ARE GONE

UNTIL THE GHOSTS ARE GONE  

Lost in the haze of self-loathing, alcoholic sinister 
delirium 
And counting the criss-cross webs of long dead spiders 
Decaying in the dormant corners 
Of my solitary confinement. 
And this bed is crowded with ghosts. 
The voices an aural din fish hooking me back and forth 
across  
These small sparse rooms. 
The ghosts call me back to this cold and unforgiving bed 
To stare at shadows mocking and teasing on the ceiling 
Until they become fixed to the backs of my eyelids. 
I rage. I wither. 
I duck. I feint. 
I huff and puff in my corner, 
Knowing the bell will ring any moment. 
I rise as the stool is removed, 
Holding onto the ropes around the ring 
And trying to see my adversaries through swollen shut 
eyes. 
Time to get slaughtered again, 
Just have to stay on my feet 
Until the ghosts are gone. 
  
I think of you. 
I think of you, my Angel, 
My One Great Love, 
I think of you. 
I remember our nights,  
The scent and the touch 
And the nearly disembodied voices 
Stroking one another in the very same bed 
That torments me now. 
We’ll be together again in seven days, 
Or eight, and your body will belong with mine again. 
I slowly emerge from my grave 
Of anger, of darkness, of sick obsession, 
Of complete desolation. 
Picking the locks of these demented chains 
One at a time 
Until the room is in soft focus once again 
And the ghosts are gone 
And I am free to live 
Once more.