Feather Step
Like meditation
behind the eyes
A morning Buddha
pressurized
With pixels in the pupils
and fire in my reflection
I crawl my claws,
old creaking paws,
over these tired keys
like limping across dusty floorboards
in a haunted house
to which I still hold the deed
So I tread
with caution
Shallow breath and feather step
over rotten wood
past specters on the spy
to once again peak into the static space
hidden behind these letters
Where I tucked away the ancient vial
hot sauce for the magic mile
Safe and sound and spider-webbed
Forgotten till the next blood trial
You either use it or lose it
Old habits would abuse it
But I take my taste
Tingled Tongue Tip
and tiptoe towards the terrestrial
Freshly dosed
and energized with old souls
Sometimes I look back
at this little hideaway
and imagine the spectacle
of a house on fire
But I dare not release the misunderstood spirits
soaked into its rustic skeleton
and holding this house together
like some kind of
ghastly astral glue
For they’re unable to survive on their own
and they truly have nowhere else
to go
.
.
.
