The flowerless months are the easiest,

when I can wither away and

retreat into nothingness,

safe from the sucking sun.

In the morning I stay in bed,

lying there, awake, right through

until noon, a skeleton arm

dangles towards bare floorboards.


My window is like a mirror,

a leafless tree outside my house

is reflecting me in all its decadence.

It comes alive at night, beckoning

me out into the dead world,

where I inhale and exhale ghosts,

walk over the crystal grass,

followed by two black cats,

deep into the town of the sedated.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s