Haunted Spaces

Some spaces eat you up,

Some spaces spit you out.

Some spaces do not exist,

Except in their own barren womb.

And there you find the remains of nightmares,

The long gone scents of wilted waters.

There, fingers touch and voices call

Deep from the abyss of unnoticed deaths.

White could be the walls hiding brown blood,

Or pure the curtains veiling its own massacres.

Like sharded tombstones of a hidden demise.

A baby boy buried in cubes of ice.

A man with an axe, proud

Of his ability to order death around.

Knocks on the door

With no one out there.

Dear little cottage,

Is this play fair?

A sweetened sourness.

A limping calm.

The mind licks the air around,

Shuffling on three feet

One in the sky,

One on ground,

One inside a tortured sleep newly found.

  

A shifting silence

Peeps through its mask;

Cursed to a life

In the realm of thoughts

Protracted by memory

And blessed by my being.

  

Stop the knocks,

I don’t want your pain

Let me sleep

And be fine again.

Clear out your hoarded memory,

Brush out the skulls, brush out the axes.

There is still sunlight outside.