Today the grand inquisitor came to my room, but, hearing his footsteps from far off, I hid under a chair. Seeing I wasn’t there, he began calling out.
Nikolai Gogol, “Diary of a Madman”
at my right hand in the
twilight, on streets
you seldom tread:
slouching to bedlam
the tombs of our dead
remind us of paper lost
from the garbage man
littering these streets
and the firelight embrace
holds us in the sepulcher
I find you melting
from my eager fingers
& the world falls away.
Deep space in the distance,
lungs inhaling nothingness
the sun blisters my skin.
Awake,
I lie alone, the phantom
remains, the softness
in my arms, the blonde
whispers are but gossamer
strands, imaginary gasses
invading the space.
Then,
on streets we both tread,
you at my left hand,
the morning haze shines
in the streetlights.
Why is there never enough
darkness?
Or does courage come
only to the lotus eaters?
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