At night I watch a line of ghosts walk past the door
In a steady stream of holographic gore.
The door is at a crack as a matter of course
And each glides by, a slivered sight where, perforce,
Each exsanguinous eye falls on me or else the floor.
They slide by in a row without howl, screech, or bark,
A chain of vapory light amidst the purpley dark.
I lay there prostrate on a cold dream-less bed
Where just a neck strains to lift a half- heavy head,
To spy this silent spectre gang sear cold on a mark
That is my already existing fathomless fear.
They burn in bloodless light with nothing but a mere
Glance that sets like an arrow at this timeless thing
Through the quiet screech of an infinite, noiseless din
Which, like each stare, is piercing and sharply clear.
Deaths foot it slowly and my ever smacking heart
Synchronizes to each silent step as they march,
And the tight and muted throbbing in my chest
Sounds the malingering dirge they feign to follow lest
No beating time create chaos and rend them apart.
Could all the ghosts of remembrance fill up a space?
Does time hold the memory for just such a place?
Yet it is time and a place that sets them one by one
Like dead ticks of the clock, like false beats of a drum,
As each eyes me, then the floor, then walks at a pace.
Sleek and shimmering, they seem all a silvery whole,
An amorphous humanity in an everlasting slow
But fleeting trek. And I strain a brain to wonder why
I somehow sense a longing, a desire within each eye,
For each to find the flickering thought of what is a soul.
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