Old house on the hill fallen to ruin I can hear my mother's voice above the flutter of wings. There she is rising from the grave, half moons caked with dirt, every finger wearing a ring. I do not see her lips move as she goes limp until the present rolls backward.
I become lost in endless blackness swirling in cold that slithers under my skin, and then her bladder lets go and I become the placenta trolling for her full-blown kiss, her mega-watt smile, while longing for the comfort of of her arms warm like the safety of her womb.
Suddenly I'm alone, fog wrapped in empty space until the train rattles past startling pigeons into flight.
The train's chilling whistle hangs eerily in the wind as the cars go clacking and rumbling down the track;
This is a song I've known since childhood, along with the pounding cold surf and the noise from the penny arcade.
The carney yells, "Step right up, buckle yourself into this nightmare ride." I enter a car and soon it vanishes taking me with it. Is it the alchemy of my soul that leads me through their spiritual unrest?
The carney plays a priestly role, on the other side of the closed curtain, as I am ****** into this nightly re-enactment with those loved ones who have now passed through the dismal stretch into the dark divide.