Alone

The four partitions surround,
they encircle menacingly,
with the implicit echo,
the sterile chant,
of the woodmen's "timber."

Minuscule orbs,
set adrift in the dead sea,
the will o wisps
of a mental swamp;
the signposts
to the shiny shiny knife.

Voices speak.
No, they weep and wail.
Disembodied and black,
they float dreamily
in the pillar of
a rising storm.

Dreams of Eves
and the unattainable fruit,
pervade and crunch.
They munch happily
on the monster
hiding above the bed.

Sobriety always comes.
A parody
of a funeral dirge.

I have opened the door
once or twice
but once its shut
they just come back.