After Hours

These ghosts are not the dead,
They are the sounds of that day’s living,
Who crowd these halls. But they left
Hours ago ——

They’ve left a sort of residue
Of loneliness, and violence,
And heartaches, dizzy-spun, like
Vertigo

There’s terror in this emptiness,
As voices, loud in chaos,
Fill up my ears, and make
My insides shake —

The after hours, madness wrung
Out of despair and Pine-sol,
And bodies torn by more than hearts
Can take

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure. View all posts by Beleaguered Servant