02 Sep The Ghosts
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
This town has been brutally masked by food chains
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.