Sunday, October 31, 2021

Ghosts 2021 

Outlined in protoplasm, violin rosin, stale breath
Slippery fingers slide over frets, blood pours from perfumed wounds
Compulsory words spoken in outdated tongues to a frozen God

We must express our anguish
The key to the highway is not a yellow streak down our backs
Savoring freedom is not enough to keep the ghosts at bay

Round about midnight the saxes begin to blow
Priests come out in their rings and robes
Every child born a king or a queen in this fairytale of derision

I did my best to scurry away from a kingdom of rats
Random acts of kindness or violence can too easily stop you in your predetermined tracks
We must pay it forward before another scapegoat is crucified in the name of frivolity

Too tired to put up a fight when the ghosts reappeared
They didn’t scare me, but I was impressed with their high-thread-count Egyptian cotton faces
I desired to break bread or at the very least allow them to haunt me for a century or two

Sketched in protoplasm, angel’s breath, lost chances
Callused fingers playing songs only the undead remember
Unnecessary words saved for a rainy day or All Hallows' Eve.

Charles Cicirella

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