The dead whisper homilies,
falsities,
word upon word,
murmuring poets, standing
from bed head to death's head,
night unto the light.
They press their fingers upon
and through me.
I was a child once,
then I heard her keening
and she was gone.
The dead whisper
to their own, in poetry.
ESTÁS LEYENDO
Bedtime Prophecies
PoesíaPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
