I Haunt Myself
Place a pillow
over night’s closed
door, recumbent
light peering
into silent dark.
Lulled to sleep
by a confusion
so desolate.
What is truly
haunting, is
possibility.
Illuminate concern,
at the stained
glow of
caramelized morning.
Wonder if
the tongue-parch
and hunger from
insomniac burst
is a marriage
of constructed
fear.
Hauntingly beautiful. Whether you spill out into prose (To the Woman who Died…) or draw back into short phrases like this, every word is carefully balanced for maximum effect. The atmosphere of tense anxiety in the darkness of the thought-provoking night is superb.