As I lay here breathing,
heavy to my ears I hear,
the sirens of crickets in the
heavy cotton night.
Musty cloth, shaken
The dust is stirred.
To the beat of my cage,
I wonder what the window taints
And what I will find behind the blinds,
Could it be she?
Alas, she’s invisible when
She calls to me.
And the twisted terror of the hour
Beckons for a finale.
When I look in a mirror,
Will it be she that I see?
Or will it be a shell of me,
Lost in a reflection to a terrible disease,
Mostly, it’s amalgamation of the twain,
And a wilting, lemony rose, in an empty frame.
Yet, how can one eye stand fast,
when another sees through the glass,
harboring hidden verity.
And the cloak of night is too thin to conceal
The ghastly reels caused by an