Hungry Ghost


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


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


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


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


The wider I open my mouth the

Stronger the impetus to consume

Of myself a monster hand raised

And what my friend of you?


I will not refrain

I will not refrain

I will not refrain


(The concept of the hungry ghost has always terrified me because I cannot distinguish how it is different from society.)