This Poem Is Haunted
#8 of poetry
Every word of this is true. It happened to a guy my brother's girlfriend, who goes to a different school, knows.
This is the house that he built out of breath.
That was his living. This is his death.
These are his clothes, though he needs them no more.
Those were his shoes, left outside the door.
These are peeled grapes, but pretend they're his eyes.
These are his teeth of unusual size.
This is his hopefulness, quite atrophied,
And that's just the wind, a-whistling outside.
This is a message. Perhaps meant to be
Received by somebody, posthumously.
This is his altar to unheard-of gods.
Here did they hear him. What are the odds?
This is his heart that they carved out of wood.
This is his body. This is his blood.
These are the words that are left of his mind,
And that is the sky he is somewhere behind.