Poets' Practice Pad

Ghosts

In constant pain,
amorphous residues twist
in fetal position
while they swallow cyanide non-stop.
All the words they can utter
are sighs and gasps when
the coiling of light
through stained-glass windows,
with manic urge, wraps
around the banister on
the mahogany stairway
spiraling downward,
as the walls melt in fluid memories.
The ether casts its spell
on snake-charmed eternity,
dusting fantasy to seduce
sad-eyed musings
and my loneliness
colder than time.





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