My tired self creates lack of will,
one that hinders shadowed holes.
My bed protects from spitting twill;
breathe of dirt and burning coals.
Disorder breaks our misspoken words,
visions of boys in streets are blurred,
voices through walls are heard.
He leans in and whispers softly hatred.
A forbidden slumber in his keep
revealed a sickened myriad tale.
Piercing cries spoil restless sleep;
a woman’s strength to which none avail.
His empty eyes, eyes that seem
to walk you past bone that has been.
A dead mans law he cannot redeem;
eyes that tell when ours do meet.
The air had thickened with fated rage,
a scene fueled no longer by sullen word.
His voice fades with veiled winds of age;
familiar hisses again are heard.
My blind houseboy appears wherein,
this room is no longer an affair within.
He swallows whole and begins to grin,
“Perhaps it’s not your petty lies that haunt you.”
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