Musings by The Poet Loriet
Haunted
HAUNTED
Kind sir,
please stop haunting my nights.
I awaken,
drenched in sweat,
eerily making love
to your ghostly Casanova.
Flipping open the phone book,
my fingers walk the pages
frantically,
searching for an exorcist,
a priest,
anyone who can help me--
but, alas,
they're listed
in invisible ink.
Splashing icy water
upon my face and neck,
I attempt to drown you,
but your memories
tread water,
repeatedly resurfacing
within my turbulent sea
of sanity.
I search my medicine cabinets,
unable to find a suitable amnesic
(Versed would work nicely)--
or Narcan to reverse the potency
of your opiate control over me,
Sodium pentathol mainlined
to sedate my wildly beating heart
and allow me to catch my breath,
but most of all,
lidocaine--
to numb the pain.
You exist on my radio waves.
You're on every television channel.
Your apparition
is subliminally
interwoven
into every aspect
of my existence.
I even glimpse your face
in my bathwater bubbles,
leering at me
in my most private moments.
My darkened bedroom window
reflects your image
late at night,
as you peer in questioning,
your mouth forming words
that I can't decipher.
My hairs stand on end--
I know when you're there,
your presence beside me
gives me goosebumps.
The only cure--
silence,
for each time
I whisper your name,
new life
courses through your veins
once again.
Lori Beal
Kind sir,
please stop haunting my nights.
I awaken,
drenched in sweat,
eerily making love
to your ghostly Casanova.
Flipping open the phone book,
my fingers walk the pages
frantically,
searching for an exorcist,
a priest,
anyone who can help me--
but, alas,
they're listed
in invisible ink.
Splashing icy water
upon my face and neck,
I attempt to drown you,
but your memories
tread water,
repeatedly resurfacing
within my turbulent sea
of sanity.
I search my medicine cabinets,
unable to find a suitable amnesic
(Versed would work nicely)--
or Narcan to reverse the potency
of your opiate control over me,
Sodium pentathol mainlined
to sedate my wildly beating heart
and allow me to catch my breath,
but most of all,
lidocaine--
to numb the pain.
You exist on my radio waves.
You're on every television channel.
Your apparition
is subliminally
interwoven
into every aspect
of my existence.
I even glimpse your face
in my bathwater bubbles,
leering at me
in my most private moments.
My darkened bedroom window
reflects your image
late at night,
as you peer in questioning,
your mouth forming words
that I can't decipher.
My hairs stand on end--
I know when you're there,
your presence beside me
gives me goosebumps.
The only cure--
silence,
for each time
I whisper your name,
new life
courses through your veins
once again.
Lori Beal
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