the people in the attic
<>
the people in my head have a perpetual wrangle
about who among the rabble
can hit the hardest
or who can hurt the most
or feel the most pain
or who deserves to sleep deeply
on the bed of daggers
this winter
or who shall feast upon the food spoiled by splinters
come spring
this mind mischief is mis-gifted
and it never stops presenting its grief
tiny devils do their miserable
un-Christmas dance all year
while my hours bend bleed and blend
into a tapestry of unsettling moments
and distracted days
<> june 2016
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