I am a mess.
A cluttered room full of
sad dust and stowed away emotions.

In the winter,
I shiver with all my excess baggage
and the piercing, frosty winds.

This woman, that comes and goes-
Unloads her haunted antiques
Off her achy and raw shoulders.

And she will return in the summer.
The heat shall suffocate and sting me
Even in the most joyous season.

I wonder- if she would ever part with these
Medieval, Gothic symbols
that fester her spirit with Shura.

Sometimes in the mirages,
Her head splits into three
And each face telling a separate story.

I pray that those hungry ghosts
Will be banished from her spirit.
And the Wheel shall finally turn
to begin my pilgrimage to the Moon.