The Ghosts

The Ghosts

Poetry

Mark McConville

 

 

 

I am stepping out of this chaotic room

Struggling to breathe in fresh air

My smoked out lungs like raging bulls

Probably red and pulsating like hearts.

 

The town looks unfamiliar

They’ve changed the billboards

And the café I used to drink coffee in

Shuttered over, and derelict,

I am saddened by it all

The thin line between greatness and

Mediocrity

This town has been brutally masked by food chains

And hopelessness.

 

I observe all these destructive would be warriors

Wielding bottles and their tortured minds

High on adrenaline and sick to their stomachs

Of falling by the wayside.

 

I manage to walk steadily

Recurring dreams bubbling inside in my head

The pavements are rough, potholes everywhere,

But I survive and make it to the other side.

 

Ravens are vocal, their sounds and distinctive noises,

Compliment this darkness that floods through this town

Seekers go in doors, enemies shout and scream,

Alcohol attacks vital organs, heads are wasted,

And I am the sober dreamer, forever owing debt,

To a lover who sold herself to a world matted in spider webs,

And deluded men.

 

The doors are shutting, the atmosphere feels curdled,

The gutters are filling up, the harm is coming,

Fear is prying open minds and my watch has hit midnight,

The ghosts may as well show themselves.

 

 

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared online and in print. He also loves to write dark poetry and fiction.

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