Thursday, October 19, 2006

New Poem: The Room

The Room

But if I look closely, the door is ajar
allowing unwelcome ghosts to fill the room
with cob-webbed voices, and the lone
candle burning in this metaphoric room
flickers and flutters, attracting moths
and even more ghosts. All of the nights
of my life are this night, layered, superimposed
one upon the other until this darkness
is the only darkness, this night and those
ghosts alone. And there, I said it,
What I have craved and feared
is in my hands, a gift of sorts, since
I didn't ask for it, not . . . . I think
the ghosts are eating the moths.
Does it mean anything to know that this
whole scene is imagined, a room hidden
in murky corners of my mind? Does it
mean anything that I like to visit this room,
these ghosts who eat moths, this candle
that never burns down? If I shut the door
once and for all, lock it all away,
will the morning feel different?

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