While I serve my bleak intrusion
into dull and remote shadows,
a mind can but question the illusion
of what stores itself within
this inner sanctum.
I peal away the crusts, so often many,
and get down to the flesh,
the blood infused core of being,
to wonder why I keep these echoes
so hidden, so entrenched in dream.
Wasn’t me, I’m just the wayfarer,
tis the work of another of me, it seems,
holding on and forming pleas,
just to taunt a mind in shadow’s cast,
to see if I will last.
And they are many, these remnants,
here in the dark caverns of me,
black secrets and paralysed glee,
forever there, and only sometimes
they stare at me, as if in the mirror.
No wonder I relent on them,
unmelodious dins of silent still,
yet there they are, in my shadow’s belt,
holding up some kind of melt
that may grasp me by the throat at any time.
A visit is all I can abide.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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