Hold me up to your ear

and listen for old ghosts who sing a murmured song.

Their comradeship will slip like glass marbles on linoleum

(the blue shooter; the owl’s eye of my heart)

through the spherical pink echo

of my hollow conch shell mind;

Once quick and housed secure,

Now quiet and longing for the sea.


Every chorus will scatter out of the ivory flesh,

and linger throughout empty mansions.

The windows closed and sealed will hum with its resonance.

Car doors slamming,

phones all the time ringing,

and ringing,

and never being answered.

Who of you will respond

in this barren shadow oven of a house

filled with death beds and pianos?


Throw my dusk shelled mind over board this ship,

with its mast of no color,

for another chance to house something keen

and living.

Amid the oceans of emerald prisms,

the ship will plod on

while the waves lap like dog tongues

licking away the salt logged frames

that buckle beneath the weight of a sea-sick crew.



Liz Foster



Author: circadianrefrain

Female. 26. Writer/Artist

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