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section7mfu2014-10-25 05:37 pm
st-crispins.livejournal.com) wrote in section7mfu2014-10-25 05:37 pm
Entry tags:
Halloween: Ghosts
Ghosts
They come at night
When the room is still,
And the bed, unshared.
They come on waves of memory
That crash like breakers and
Wash away sleep.
There are hundreds, thousands;
They are legion.
This one’s throat was cut,
That one’s neck was broken.
This one burned, and
That one sizzled with electric current.
This one fell off a train.
That one plummeted from a roof.
This one was shot, and
That one was blown to bits.
They jostle each other
In the small, small space
Between waking and dreaming,
Angry, cursing, baring teeth,
Pointing to their festering wounds,
Wagging accusing fingers.
Because you see,
It was my knife that cut,
And my rope that garroted;
My lighter that flamed,
My hand at the switch.
I was the one who pushed
Or struggled,
Or stepped aside.
I pulled the trigger first,
Or hit the plunger.
But I feel no sympathy for them, or guilt.
They all deserved their fate.
They would have done the same to others
Or worse.
The only thing that stopped them
Was me standing in their path.
And so, I close my eyes to them
And turn into my pillow.
Eventually, frustrated,
They drift away.
I have no fear of ghosts.
They are all helpless, impotent now.
Just names in a file,
Stories told over drinks.
Fragments stored for a future memoir.
They can do no harm.
That doesn’t mean I sleep undisturbed.
Pills or liquor sit on my bed stand
More times than I can count.
Because it’s the ones that got away,
The one who are still out there,
Not yet ghosts,
Who keep me up at night.
They come at night
When the room is still,
And the bed, unshared.
They come on waves of memory
That crash like breakers and
Wash away sleep.
There are hundreds, thousands;
They are legion.
This one’s throat was cut,
That one’s neck was broken.
This one burned, and
That one sizzled with electric current.
This one fell off a train.
That one plummeted from a roof.
This one was shot, and
That one was blown to bits.
They jostle each other
In the small, small space
Between waking and dreaming,
Angry, cursing, baring teeth,
Pointing to their festering wounds,
Wagging accusing fingers.
Because you see,
It was my knife that cut,
And my rope that garroted;
My lighter that flamed,
My hand at the switch.
I was the one who pushed
Or struggled,
Or stepped aside.
I pulled the trigger first,
Or hit the plunger.
But I feel no sympathy for them, or guilt.
They all deserved their fate.
They would have done the same to others
Or worse.
The only thing that stopped them
Was me standing in their path.
And so, I close my eyes to them
And turn into my pillow.
Eventually, frustrated,
They drift away.
I have no fear of ghosts.
They are all helpless, impotent now.
Just names in a file,
Stories told over drinks.
Fragments stored for a future memoir.
They can do no harm.
That doesn’t mean I sleep undisturbed.
Pills or liquor sit on my bed stand
More times than I can count.
Because it’s the ones that got away,
The one who are still out there,
Not yet ghosts,
Who keep me up at night.
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Thanks for posting this for the Writer's Choice!
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We really miss you being able to write fanfic. Curses on your demanding job! (OK, just kidding about the last one...)
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But I do have some interesting data from my survey and perhaps I can put something together. Not now, of course. Mid Terms!
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Hope all is well with you!