My ghost opens the gate
And I walk through.
I glance up and smile,
“That’s very kind of you.”
He leads me down a hall
Erected in my past;
Dark then eerie light,
We reach the end at last.
There’s a thick closed door,
And I jiggle the knob.
“It’s open!” I start,
And he gives me a nod.
I turn it real quick
Like a top on flat stone.
As it creaks wide open
I enter and groan.
I see pulsing red
And a gash along the wall.
A thick crimson syrup
Seeps out of it and falls.
It pools before me
Like hot, dripping wax
On ready parchment
Before a seal’s impact.
I burst with ripe tears.
“It’s hurt!” I shout, then
Outside the walls, an echo
Sounds — “It hurts!”
The faint, mournful
Tone ends yet resounds,
As the pulse grows fast,
And the syrup pours out.
“What’s this?” I ask, and look up
To see the door is gone
And it’s only me —
My ghost has withdrawn.
I rush to the remnant
Of what used to be the door,
And strike against the fleshy wall
Until my wrists are sore.
I back away in panic
As the walls begin to close,
And trip across a vein
That’s bulging on the floor.
I catch myself at first
With my hands and knees,
But then I can’t move,
And realize I can’t breathe.
I look at the fluid
Rising up my arms,
Pulsing from the gash
Oozing from the walls.
It moves up my chest,
To my neck, then chin,
Reaching my nose
As the walls cave in.
In a drowning cry,
I open my mouth,
Then my ghost appears
As the light goes out.
I wake in the dark,
Heart pounding within,
Recalling the dream,
My ache, my pain.
“It hurts.” I whisper,
Then close my eyes,
And again seek escape
Through unconscious night.
January 2021