Somewhere at the Bottom of the Morgue

Everything is dark.

Smells foul—reeks of lost ambitions and broken dreams

In some kind of box

Don’t know if I’m dreaming or not

Sounds and swirls echo

Whispers of Everyone I ever loved

and Everyone I didn’t.

I want light

To feel it–the soft warmth of early morning sun

To see it–sunbeams split through leaves

To be it–the only escape.

But there is none.

Just me

and my ghosts

that I took with me

my ghosts

that I keep in me

my ghosts

that are me.

Just me

and my ghost

somewhere at the bottom of the morgue.