The past few nights have been drawing out like a blade for me
long, sharp and hypnotizing even with slight dullness
drying myself out with some kind of touch of hope that clarity herself will pay me a visit
and still I wait in a 90 degree bedroom
curling up in a fetal position in my own pond of sweat
staring at the haunting yellowish glowing light volting out of my empty fish tank
sounds of the a.m. night cackling and rustling outside of my opened patio door; and I am afraid
I am afraid of what may visit me
I am afraid of what may not take me
I am afraid of what it might look like
I am afraid it will be a spitting image of myself
fighting my eye lids from closing with flashbacks of past moments, past failures, and past loves
these loves left me with a ghost
a ghost that does not want to be banned, forgotten, exorcised
ghosts that will look like them but are really just impersonations channeling through my heavy heart
and so it goes
the hands of the night grasp my soul as firm and as steady as the hour hand of a clock
