In the gloaming
There are dull drumbeats:
The forests are black and thick with shadows,
Waiting to attack like ghostly wolves.
I don’t know what’s real and imagined anymore.
A thousand voices roar:
All screaming to me that they’re the truth.
A million flickering mirrors,
All singing like sirens;
Tempting me to touch them.
Everywhere I turn I get hemmed in:
No hole; no hollow where I can escape like smoke.
I am trapped inside this box
Reeking with a poisonous smell.
Red-rimmed eyes watch from every window
I am frozen on the floor with fear.
Smiling horrors (like ice) lurk in the streets
The obedient and meek turn their faces away.
The thoughts of the shadows
Are black scrutinizing knives:
The blood is slowly dripping down
The side of my right brain like hot wax.
And I can see myself from a thousand angles;
Just a million sorry scraps of skin.
I give up: My body relaxes:
Deeper into the folds of the music,
My skin slips onto the silk.
My cloud of sanity is shattered
And my wits fall like rain.
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photograph by Toa HeftibaHire An Editor
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