January 26, 1906
Forty-seven days have passed and the bananas in my kitchen are still green. They remain untouched and unmoved since I brought them home from market. To my eye they appea
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Frigid air as sharp as glass
clawing up my nose,
caressing my insides
from my head to my toes
Toes planted in the snow
Wind blows as every glass gasp
passes
Foggy days shroud the sun,
curdle my blood
A gut-punching flood
to release,
to expel that fog
That mental smog
that fuels the beast
Out shoot wisps of ghosts
slicing through the winter
The most
demonic,
endemic,
familiar spirits I had trapped inside.
A friendly dose of
a symphonic,
yet catatonic
splinter of stained glass
that lines my unholy castle moat
Their intangible bodies
whisper infallible oddities,
wrap their tails around me,
compress my lungs,
and leave me empty
And then they leave
They leave me
lonely
Exhale.
Inhale;
...
Exhale