The Corners are Black

In this sick-house,
the place I live,
my own Bedlam,
a place to grieve,

the corners are black.
Dried blood, perhaps.

The farthest corner
is where I hide.
The withered me,
with blackness inside,
screams to be heard,
above the cries

of the tormentor,
Blackness, who is
my hollow bride.

These screams, carried
into the ether,
modulated, varied,
both, but neither,

find no ear
in the distant places.
Yet, I have little to fear
from those blackest places.

© CGT, 2018.

7 thoughts on “The Corners are Black

      1. Oh, they’re all showing up that way. I thought maybe it was just a fluke at first, but they all appear to be that way. That’s why I figured I’d ask about it…

Talk to me.