Meat sack

 

Sometimes the world

can feel too big 

or just a little too small,

even your own street

can feel too much,

a vast canyon of distrust,

or a dead end with sheer brick wall

scrawled in graffiti slurs, 

eyes at every perching point.

Fingers ready to assume,

eyes to judge, lips to smear,

and towns can be chasms

of red rust and fear.

 

You watch the shadows intently,

Seeing them move in the flickering

memory of moonlight, a spectre

shaped from stories.

The way it warps at every

blink of the eye.

And inside you feel

your soul

slowly give up

the ghost

and

 

die.

 

And as you walk on.

A meat sack

controlled by a ghost,

you just watch as the days grow old.

Autumn falls on young soul,

leaves so much older

once the cold gets hold.

And the memories that once rained,

Now only come in trickles,

paranoid freckles of time.

 

And that which once tickled your heart,

now just scribbles on the walls,

an RIP,

to the love that you held inside.

 

And you sigh, under a street sign.

A destination underlined.

You believed you had

one of those once upon a time.

But now your map has been torn, the compasses,

only spin around, and the stars are blinking out.

 

But then a voice whispers.

in a delicate breeze. Something beautiful

a word of hope in a world deceased.

 

And your diseased

heart

once again

beats

in the distance.

 

And you rush to scrabble through the dirt,

ripping up old stories, worn hopes and faded shirts.

That no longer fit your bones. You dig, faster, faster,

nails shredded, blood stained and red.

fingers sink into something warm.

The beating heart

wanting to come home.