Thursday, October 31, 2013

A Haunted House

A skull’s an awful place to find yourself
alone: it’s dark, and damp, and cramped, a-crawl
with thoughts, like insects, busy all the time.

The only time light gets inside is when
the bone is cracked: say, by an accident,
or surgery, or violent attack.

There is this strange impression created by
the eyes—a world outside the cranium.
But this is background noise, the buzz of flies:

a cloud of doubts rubbing hairy hands
together, looking forward to a meal
more substantial than your mind. More real.

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