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.