Ghosts wash clean the dried out head that
Sits like a devil between my blades.
They hover, watching me, crying, their faces
Red as Satan, as I sit here, chained,
My knuckles infected.

The ghosts linger for what seems like weeks,
But I'm told it's more like grains of time.

Then they begin.

The holes in their heads
Open like torn paper
And they begin planting their question marks
In the rich soil of my scalp,
Watching them grow like hooks inside my head,
Fishing out the good bits.
Now matter how hard I scream
Or how hard I pray,
They plunge their hooks in my skull so hard
The pain blackens me.

When I awaken I see a window without bars
For the first time in years.
It reflects the ghosts as they wander in,
Their faces white now, like angels.
Candles stand in a row behind them like some burning fence.
They encircle me.
One of them grips my chainless hands,
And they start to plunge their hooks in once more.

Struggling to breathe,
My eyes spin up into the sky,
Shooting fast like stars,
Exploding and imploding.
My bones, an army of melting white men,
Anchoring me down, down;
My naked flesh, a figment that lingers,
Until there is nothing left
But the incantations and the candles.

I wake up in chains again.
Instead of candles, bars shine down on me like stars
And I thank God that in this small quiet darkness
I may be allowed some time.

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