What if I were the malingering
Essence of a protracted dementia?
Bereft of life as of discernment
What if I stood in the wreckage of
Some former existence, unfulfilled
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What if shadows were the
Embodiment of life and I
Were nothing but a rapacious
Shell, outgrown? A caricature
Grotesquely tumescent,
Who grievously dysphagic
Would continue fruitlessly
To devour and in the same
Strained breath decompose
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What if this existence were neither
Life nor death? I, a specimen pressed
Between two panes of glass, neither
Here nor there but perpetually waiting
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What if my voice were only an echo?
A dogeared page in a cyclic history
A call for help unheard and unheeded
The instinct paramount to an insatiable
Gluttony, a heart chambered not for
Love or life but solely for digestion
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The wider I open my mouth the
Stronger the impetus to consume
Of myself a monster hand raised
And what my friend of you?
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I will not refrain
I will not refrain
I will not refrain
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(The concept of the hungry ghost has always terrified me because I cannot distinguish how it is different from society.)
mindlovemisery 