I sit in the still of my house, low and somber,
all wishing for witching and time machine lumber,
my promises baking like pies in the fire,
a crayon-soaked clamp round my neck like a wire.
A small steady whisper keeps saying its lines,
“I know you are sorry, but really its fine.”
There Childhood and Innocence leer from the rafters,
and choke on the smoke of their recent disasters,
and reel from the paper weight of written words,
and never stop squeaking like smoldering birds.
I watch as they wriggle in subdued despair,
I watch as they point devilishly at air.
I stumble while seated and stutter while silent,
the cries of the birds rise, soulful and triumphant,
I lay down in decadence, which I ignore,
the beat of their wings echoes down to the floor.
I simper and whine like a dog put outside,
the Haunts grow much longer, and stronger, and wide,
I see or hear naught but their song like a flutter,
I bury myself in the bedding like butter.
The cushions are soft here, the food never ends,
I’ve time for my mind to sigh, wrecked on a bend;
these Ghouls which you send me are holy and just,
the way you work through my pain which,
dear, you must.