My mind is an unquiet graveyard; uninterred mistakes stare up from their open barrows Milk eyes clearing to glass As the anxious banshee crosses over them keening notes drifting linen strands of her raiment twining around their wrists Dragging sloughed skin into the murky light Of repeated examination.
I could be a queen of solitude if not for this. If Pandora's voice box were broken hinges rent, screws loosed from their cavities, wood split the demons might still, displaced. Hope is not the last thing in my throat she was the first to go with a song unsung an alto never strong enough to last beyond the first few flakes of oxygen I inhale in the morning.