Within the hollows of my heart
I see the soul of seven centuries
Emptied in a jar.
As July follows suit, the cracks
The wind, the red flames curling
Against the dusty veranda glass
Tell me tales I’ve heard before.
The routine, the walls gazing
From behind cardboard tower blocks;
I have seen this all ten billion times
Before the sun went up.
The smell of summer green
The sound of dogs chasing
Balls, bones, each other or us;
Not a sensation is uncharted here,
Not a thought, sentiment rerun every day,
I need to fade into the walls,
Become their ghost, become the blood
Pulsing through this home.
And know not of a world,
Be ignorant of what I miss,
As the life slips from my tired nose.
I am in hell-cloaked heaven,
A purgatory bubble within
The flaming town of Dis.
I wish I could keep my mind
From rising above the wall,
To peek at folk and fun beyond this hole.
Let it seep into my flesh,
The bore, the routine,
The smell of garden green,
Let it be my Lethe.
I am absent now from social spheres,
I write my elegies of longing
To breezes carrying the birdsong.
I wish you well, living folk!
Go with blessed treads,
Says I, a ghoul of yesteryear.