Ghosts

it's the ghosts
again.

they haunt and they wail
and they've come back
again

to traipse around in yesterday's sheets
of white death-weave
again.

they lurk in shadows which should not exist;
vacant hallways echo
with ache and lament.

corridors stretch and grow longer,
they are colder, now--
they are narrower.
light no longer holds any value;
taistes of dust and tyme-wave cause
a ruckus in the soul,

vibrating clanking cantankerous racket;

the heart lub-flubs: its palpitations
no longer of any consequence.
futile, futile fuck of a thing
you are, you are,
Mine Love.

phantom echoes--
neuron-fire flurries--
and light-show pictures of faded sepia
rain down in havoc-spells of fury.

bleak pall-shadows taking over:
and mem'ry comes, a-rushing
in cold soulless gusts
to tear at faded harlequin-print;
to tear at baseboard, to tear at plaster;
et mens, et corpus, et cor.

knock-knock on the door.
let them in? raise the dead?
it's the ghosts--
the ghosts are here
to frequent their haunt
(to take me back)
again.