The Ghosts We Haunt

I see him
in a locked cage
in Hell.

Where the patter of water
is not a burst pipe but
a cord cut and 
bleeding by the litre.

A monster sings
in a room built deep
of mind and made for screaming.

A Poltergeist made of flames
burning quietly in the din
of forgetting.

He’s there, in the dark, faceless.

And I go down there sometimes
to poke him with a stick
and hear him growl

◄ The Dark At The End Of The Tunnel

Spine Fire (Instructions For Survivors Of Kundalini) ►


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