Aperture
My bankvault skull, screwed shut, up, and over,
Is dripping ghosts like a leaky faucet.
Semisweet whispers and bitter grins,
Still overpowered by a single spectre;
A single haunting that never eases,
Twisting sun-stained afternoons into aching twilight.
Halfblind, I see it like a splotch on a Polaroid.
4 thoughts on "Aperture"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
love “bankvault skull”
And I can even hear that splotch spread!
Horncoat, you impress me
Great sounds and imagery throughout this poem. The hauntingness really shows.