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The wall echoes the sound;
Then silence.
The dog's pant ceases.
You heard me right the first time
and you heard me right
the second time.
The third time.
I hear the echo of myself.
I feel the loose,
fetid corpse
Shaking within my skin.
Bones rattling.
If spoken in a whisper
I would be in ruin.
So instead I scream
and echo
against the wall.
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Captive in your own skin? Your life too small, Bunky; is that what is troubling you? Well, I suggest coffee-flavored incense burned over a very bad bayberry candle.
All joking aside, this is a well-done poem of soul angst. Hurts because I can understand it too well.
This is what originally drew me to your work ... this all too understandable cry of the hungry heart.
Felt this was eerie. In some ways reminded me of the House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. Wish I could explain more but as with that book, this just leaves me with a strange feeling.
The only thing I didn't quite follow was the full stop after 'the third time' - rather felt this should have been a comma to lead into 'I heard the echo of myself'
