15/01/2016: Hauntings

(We’ve moved from rape culture to death. This is the cheeriest little writing blog ever!

This sonnet probably needs a bit more work, really, but eh. Written in Petrarchan format, because really, fuck Shakespeare.)

I wonder, as the darkness closes in, whether bodies can be haunted

As houses often are, by ghosts, or memories of times long past;

Fading, drifting, like a miasma, like a smog, like the very last

Glimpse of smoke from a fire. When the memory is exhausted,

Will the house collapse, the body die? Or will it continue, a morbid

Shadow of what was, even as the spectre leaves its cast?

Like automatons dancing along the rails or spinning out in the vast

Reaches of space, without a voice, or a person, undaunted.

These are the thoughts that come on me in the night, when all is dark,

And my thoughts turn likewise shadowy, thinking of death and

Other sombre things. I think of Charon and the journey he must embark

On. I think of him, standing there, before a legion of ghosts, holding out his hand…

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