Untitled Poem

Security was hard to come by. He had it.
Taunting whispers tease fingertips, which grasp softly at Comforts bosom.
A downward spiral, wanting, reaching, clanging down the iron bannister.
SMASH! His ghost of three faces taking turns to haunt his unexpecting audience.
No one likes a carousel, yet here we are spinning in circles,
And faster
Until someone flies off and crashes to the ground
Racing in a swimming pool of salt, rubbing the wounds of the fall
Dancing in naked chains under the blazing moonlight of superstition.
Purple pendent dangles diagonally from his neck
Each pull of breath squeezing it tighter and tighter.
Stormy nights sooth Hysteria so that he may sleep to the sound of his own drum.
Yellow light vs. blue light, the irony goes noticed or unnoticed or completely disregarded because what does it matter if the light is Orange or Green.
Being a drunk does a poet not make,
Being a poet does make you a drunk, He thought as that familiar pop and glucking, berries and red grapes fill his mouth, belly and mind.
Wine tastes of home, memories flood his mouth, and nostalgia pours from his eyes, sobbing in the expensive forgotten fruits that pour to the ground from a limp grip.
Nightmares and night terrors and night creatures excite the second ghost within.
Building to the brink to the bright moon.
Soft pillows of feathered apples catch his fall.
A new moon rises and with it, his spirit sores so high that nothing can bring him down. Not even the broken feet of the purple pendant.
He flies, until he’s dropped into a pool of calm blue excitement and happiness.
Hope, the feeling won’t melt away.
Because security was hard to come by. But he might have finally found it.


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