Traces of a Haunted Woman



The sweaty bodies of men paint

hieroglyphs of her insanity.


Them that had penetrated her perforce

But never pierced her veil.


I watch her swirl like a dervish in heat.


I observe her floating gracelessly in alcohol placentas, all sepia, settled like a dust mote


in my eye.


If a woman is cut down in the forest of her dreams,


is she?


The sound of one heart shattering.


Mine, I guess.


All I want is to subsume her into my healing.

Absorb her darkness.

Lick her tears with a forked tongue, perhaps.

Or just hand her an apple.


The descent into hell begins.


Please fasten your seat belts


Over decrepit bones.


Direct your sockets




Not into your phones.


Fear not the demons,


The fiery cauldrons,


As you are already dead.


Dread only your fellow passengers


On the road ahead.


There is no return ticket


On this hellish ride.


Only the smoldering memories


Of your haunted pride.