Yard Sale of Thoughts

The night sky snaps photographs,
laughs derisively.

A storming paparazzi
searches with strobe lights,
their cigarettes like fiery eyes,
puff, puff of angry beasts.

What's that I see?
Smoke from an unused chimney,
the one where we used to meet.

Lightning needles prick my skin
in places, unpredictably.
I flinch, as outside the storm
itches,
a hall light random flickering.

I want to forget, 
but a jolt sends me straight up.
I'm a jack-in-a-box, 
completely unhinged.

An image in the mirror, 
but she doesn't look like me. 

In the whistling wind I hear his voice,
unnerving.

Someone stands by the bed;
a set of eyes scanning me,
a mouth frozen in an '0'
but doesn't speak.

The hunter is now close,
his arrow'gainst my cheek;
a blade bent into cavity.

the weight of him
crushing.

He steals my breath,
or is it hands around my neck?

I wake again with covers wet,
the storm outside not passing.

"You've found me at last, old friend."
I say, to wind and rain,
crying against windowpane.

I thought I could forget,
but oh, how the past can press.

So close.

As close as it gets.

© 2024| K.Hartless

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