Ghost

I swear, I think I died
one day, nestled deep in my bed;
now a shell, a fragment left of myself
carries out all the tasks I will never do.
What was my name, before everything faded out?
I ache to remember all of my past.
But before this, nothing was there:
nothing but the darkness.

Time has ceased it's ticking;
many clocks are left unwinded
with no one there to give them a sharp twist.
The painters who created my face are all gone,
and all the bright pictures of life have stopped spinning -
they're melting. The paint is now dripping down
all over my prone figure, that
fails to make any sound.

If worms don't eat me up,
I think, then, I will chew myself
silly: eating chunks of my gray body,
swallowing them whole in search of reality.
Is my tomb already shut? Am I inside it?
Sometimes I think I can taste wood, carved rock
as flakes of them land on my tongue -
they taste just like sugar.

Death is not a concept
when it's staring you in the face,
as gray and unforgiving as cold steel.
(It is the only thing I do with perfection.)
It is the only story that has no ending;
except for when the casket has been closed,
locking me, and my ghost, inside
the realms of Forever.


~J.V.Harker~
~Thursday 21 May 2009~