Ghosts

Two headed freak. Tiring times when he sees your face
and he knows you are inside. Behind that panel
that reflects his eyes, he sees you. Not the face but
different names, not nicknames but true names. They fight
for revival. They stand in a crowded line reaching
with their warped bewildered fingers. Melting like tar
on flowers. In sudden wisps they posses him.
Taking the similar form but in different sizes of heart.
emotions are not similar. eyes are differ. the way they
breathe are in sizes not in proportion to his. funny isn't it.

Lingering for a while and running from the strikes
they get. Hiding under the cracked tables with broken
legs. He hears them fight, choke, cough and sneezing.
But they like it when its decorated with cheap, cliche,
plastic picnic blankets. Blue, green, red but never
yellow. The colors shields them from prying eyes
that clash. red Yellow red and red and orange green
Blue red orange and white. Black; but only sometimes.

secretly in black, it watches the shadows of blue. it wonders
when white and red clash into the mixture of red yellow blue.
they spin spin spin spin like a unicircle of great mass.
growing and growing and growing and growing. and in a large
bust of noises the blue fights for their mild orgasms. roaring
in quiet lies in multitudes of weird funny noises and grunts. blue
is not organic, cobalt or sea. Its black.

Under that same blanket lies many. Under that same table lies
a crowd. Not watching, but queuing to posses. Do not stare too much.
Or think too much, or listen too much. Talk less as they creep
into you when words mention quiet or loud :
'is' 'was' 'am' 'to' 'maybe' 'why' 'because'. But always 'I'.

Hush my baby, don't cry.
I'll sew you unreal surreal stories about dragons tonight.