He dreams the rain
on the windows. There
are girls in the walls,
bones of a small animal
beneath the bed. In
these dreams he's always
dead or half dead, propped
against the door like an old
saw. He believes he may
be waiting for something or
someone , a ghost or a bone
man, or a woman with a cat's
smile carrying a crystal
decanter or crystal meths.
His hands are very soft,
the bones may have gone.
His feet though are hard
& tough, like rock or metal
or the back of the door he
leans against. Sometimes it
seems to him he may no longer
be quite human, no longer quite
of this world, or the world
next door for that matter.
Sometimes he's not even sure
he's here at all
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
He dreams the rain
on the windows. There
are girls in the walls,
bones of a small animal
beneath the bed. In
these dreams he's always
dead or half dead, propped
against the door like an old
saw. He believes he may
be waiting for something or
someone , a ghost or a bone
man, or a woman with a cat's
smile carrying a crystal
decanter or crystal meths.
His hands are very soft,
the bones may have gone.
His feet though are hard
& tough, like rock or metal
or the back of the door he
leans against. Sometimes it
seems to him he may no longer
be quite human, no longer quite
of this world, or the world
next door for that matter.
Sometimes he's not even sure
he's here at all
Request permission to use this poem