Prism

It’s curious.
In this incestuous head,
bone is squeezing too tightly.
Turned one way, what’s real is swirled.
Degrees aft or starboard,
things will gel,
but sound is suddenly smothered.
Venous rivers are imagined,
and the heart’s voice is a drum.
The ghost may be giving up.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s