I feel translucent;
Fevered though I may be,
My corporeal devotee leaves me
White, and substance less as a specter
I feel hollow
Like the bullet in a gun,
Devastating and piercing
Only so much more refined.
The descending noose
Lends no anxiety;
An unexpected Kolonopin daydream
Takes its place with utmost grace.
I feel refined,
Though no black-out suits distract
From ragged eye pits set deep
Into rigor mortis face
I feel cavernous
Stalactites drip from my open wound;
Or obscene, a bedroom 'Jesus Christ'
Like resounding orgasm catcalls.
I feel better;
Slowly but surely
All good things
Must come to an end.
I think that today,
I might finally feel better.
Tyler Wilcox
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghost-stories-3/
