"Witching Hour Ramblings"
By Megan Rheaume-Brand
Creeping in my head I'm dead. Creeping in my head. All along the bed I said.
Writhing in compassion. Compaction. Philanthropic.
Seasonal tropical fruitanical orangemanical.
Staying awake. Staying alive. peeping and pipping. ghastly gnarling.
galloping garangotangs. phillip phillips' Phillips. krackling krafties.
Dive deep into the death. dive deep into the shards and let them print words on your soul.
Clicking and clacking. jumping and dancing. Leaping.
They are not who you think they are, or who they try to be.
They are the mysterious tendrils snaking up and grabbing hold of your tiny throat.
They can't breathe. You can't breathe. He can't breathe. She can't breathe. We can't breathe.
I won't breathe.
I could jump. I will jump. I will willingly fall down and down and down until the world flips and I am falling up.
Eating your cake and having it too. Although it is all in the distant past.
Ship's smoking on the horizons of yesterday's stale memory.
I wouldn't come for me either. You can't help anyone at all if you don't let yourself help you. She is sick. She has a debilitating sickness that will never be helped.
Never has the line of a blade seemed so calming, so cooling. So heartfelt.
I wish I would fly. I could. Morning doves mourning childhood's murder.
The creaking of the chairs billowing throughout the sycamore tree only frighten her more.
And while she did live, it was not a life any person would survive.
And no happiness did exist ever again. Ever after. And then some.
And when she cried out in sorrow, the chains did not approve. they tightened even more. she did not relax; in fact, she screamed one long note of pure terror as she realized they were not going to let nature take it's own course. Artificial life is the new black.
And it will prolong her forevers.
"I wrote it one lonely day in the middle of the night."
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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.
