A Sunday Night

Another day’s fleeing away
I’m locked up in myself again.

My ghosts,
they crawl, uninvited,
As clean and pure as diamonds,
Proud of the snare they set for me,
So effortlessly and
so ordinarily.

My ghosts,
they know me faithfully,
They settle in my crumbled strength
They poison my forbidden faith,
Taint my unforgivable hopes.

My ghosts,
they march through the dark rooms,
Through the cracks of my bravery,
They toss and turn in loud voices,
blight and crumple my horizons.
They weigh like stones.
They taste like steal,
A rotten sword into my mouth.
Merciless hands around my throat.

My ghosts,
they feed from inner frights,
From those nameless insanities,
They rule supreme over night-time.
Barren furrows,
Pointless wishes.

My ghosts,
they drag my soul away
from my invisible havens.

My ghosts,
they muffle every cry,
They slay my Gods
Deprive my prayers,
Praise Death as holy lullabies.

My ghosts,
they may fade, hopefully,
When another day is dawning.