I am the shadow that strangles the light
of hope while you lay alone at night
Endlessly festering inside your mind
Destroying all desire to find
The bounds of your true might

For years, Tim had the visions
Seeing things that no one could
If he spoke of them, he's crazy
He kept quiet, like he should
Just normal, little, visions
Of people who were dead
Just wandering in places
He knew weren't in his head

It started on vacation
He saw the "grey lady" in a room
At first, he thought the lighting
made what he saw there in the gloom
But, later, in his bedroom
while reading pamphlets on the place
she appeared there in his bedroom
But, he couldn't see her face

He kept his little secret
Not telling people she was there
She was mentioned by no others
So, he didn't really care
An undigested bit of beef
A piece of moldy bread
Like Dicken's Scrooge before him
She wasn't real, because she's dead

While still on his vacation
He saw two more, this time more clear
He saw one upon a staircase
And the other, much more near
They never interacted
Didn't know that he could see
But, he wondered "why could no other"
"see them 'cept for me?"

Two years had passed, he was at home
He was living on the coast
When one day he saw the woman
And he knew she was a ghost
The house was large, and gothic
With a widows walk on top
It was there he saw the woman
He shut his eyes to make it stop

She walked upon the rooftop
Looking out over the waves
Her dog was there beside her
Looking for someone to save
He walked away in silence
Turned to look, she was not there
He knew better than to think that
It was a trick of light and air

Turns out the spirit walker
Lost her husband in a wreck
He was a whaler, up in Portsmouth
He drowned and broke his neck
A wave came out of nowhere
Sank his boat, "The Lucky Hoof"
Now, his widow walks and watches
She is a fixture on the roof

He's seen children in the bushes
Not quite sure if they were real
But, could he talk about his visions ?
His dark secret to reveal
They never seemed to notice
That he saw them, they just were
So he'd watch them and he'd listen
Till the day that he saw her

She was sitting in the corner
Of a restaurant, alone one night
But as he watched a little closer
He saw no shadow from the light
She sat alone in silence
No one ventured where she sat
She was dressed in twenties clothing
A classy dress and flapper hat

Two nights went by, he saw her
Sitting exactly as before
When he asked about the table
He saw the table was no more
He had to find this woman
find out why she showed up here
He would investigate the building
But, first he'd have a beer

Turns out her name was Maisy
At least that's what he found out
She went missing from the building
Of this there was no doubt
No one knew which way she travelled
No one ever saw her go
But, the stories, oh the stories
Maisy, turns up...don't you know

The corner with the table
Was just a bricked up wall, that's all
It was constructed when she left here
By the old owner Joe Paul
There never was a reason
For the wall, it had no use
There could only be one reason
And I think you can deduce

Maisy never went and left here
Joe killed her late one night
It was an accident of passion
He had to hide her out of sight
But like Poes tale "The Telltale Heart"
She would show up in her seat
Only Joe could ever see her
No one else would Maisy meet

Tim went to the new owner
Told him of Maisy and her tale
Told him of The Widow Hanker
And her husband and his whale
Was he crazy ? or a mystic ?
The owner said "you are no clown"
And he said tonight at closing
The wall is coming down

They found dear Maisy waiting
In her dress and flapper hat
She was sitting at the table
She was dead, and that was that
The owner, shocked to silence
Stood and watched our mystic Tim
As he stood there while Maisy's spirit
Left this world and passed through him

Tim still has the visions
Still sees the woman and her hound
Still watching for her husband
Tim knows he won't be found
He knows which ones he's needed
To investigate, set free
And the rest of all the spirits
Well, Tim knows what is meant to be

No reason to fall asleep,
No reason to stay awake,
No reason to stop and weep,
No reason to give or take.
No reason to stop trying,
No reason to start at all,
No reason for truth or lying,
No reason to have a ball.

No reason to leave,
No reason to breath,
No reason to stay,
No reason to delay.
No reason why we're born to rot,
Then again,
No reason why not.

Brittle bones and dulcet tones
Of monitors beeping their last.
In a sunny room with a sinless floor
White sheets of purest perfection
Cover the only blemish
In view of Eden.
A casket of flesh hangs in tranquility
Over the hollow structure of mud and man.
Angels blink and do not see
The raging lacerations cradling
And caressing the final pieces of life
In her.
Her visage drapes to silence the mind
And will never be held again.
The winter of her absence is already felt
As her hands drift away like smoke.
Never took more than was hers,
Now this takes all that ever touched her.
The payment for a well-lived life is love
Hers wandering after the dulcet tones
Do cease.

“State your full name for the record.”
       Already guilty before the impartial audience
“Please raise your right hand…”
       Do the hokey pokey, turn the truth around
“Remember, you are under oath.”
       For doing what was right, you’ll be punished to the end
“May the record reflect…”
       …That we couldn’t break this one.
“Call the next witness.”
       Since this one’s honesty bores us
“You are excused.”
       Oh how I wish that were true.

That night did you feel my hand trembling as I held my finger against the trigger of a 22 guage handgun.
Did you hear my tear drops hit the floor when I realized that I wasn’t man enough to do it.
Do you taste the bile in my mouth every time I try to drink myself to death,
Or maybe you heard the wails of my mother whenever she found out that her son was a ***, slapping her head like I had just set her on fire.
I apologize for my unorganized poetry.
With its lack of rhyme scheme and rhythm,
But quite frankly I’m tired of putting on a show.
I don’t like sitting in your office waiting for your approval to speak.
Or listening to your sob stories about the lack of thanks we’ve shown you.
It’s just not enough that we’re expected to call you a father figure and polish your statues and play hop scotch across bricks with your name on them.
And let’s not forget the theatrical performances staged in your name.
But no Mr. President there is yet to be built an ivory tower in your name with a sacrificial fire burning at its feet.
Because it would honestly get your attention more if I just threw myself into its flames while shouting odes to you in Latin.
Really what is my worth to you.
The price tags hanging above your thousands of children are not equal, so I would really like to be rung up and placed in a plastic bag, just so I could see my receipt.

an intergalactic being of the static
trying not to panic
in the sporadic antics
of a frantic romantic

manic freak

bobbing to the beat
of drones and sheep
as the storms seep
from the more discrete
holes in my heart
render me obsolete
and deplete me from afar

weave me the dreams of delicate surrender
cleave me at the seams in vicious splendor
deceive me in the memes of malicious pretenders

and take me to never was
tell me of the ridiculous
the insidious
the belligerence of thugs
the deliverance of slugs
the hideous
wrap me in a rug
with no love
*****
drugs
and a mean mug

peacefully pitiful