emmett

Tss!
Spirits? Really?
There are no spirits.
Ridiculous.

Just people who can't accept sadness.
That’s it.
People who don't want to be alone.
Grow up.

But there it was.
Crawling across her name plate.

It doesn’t matter 
If big brother exists.
Maybe so,
But it would be easier.
Control is an simpler ailment
To treat than hysteria.
Hysteria’s roots grow deep
Into the mind’s fertile soil,

What would you do
If when you gazed into mirror’s eye
A mask of evil looked back?

If pale skin with sapphire eyes,
Broad shoulders with skruff biting at the neck,
Was your inheritance?

I've seen that face before,

billowing golden-peach
clouds and flowing blue
sky in the afternoon sun, laying

the radiant backdrop
to a gliding falcon, cutting 
through winter’s brisk air

like the little sailboat I rode

Your crippled heart
bathed its hands in yesterday's
      tommorows. Assurances 
that you never 
got the chance to keep.
      Too stale–too busy.
No, this is not
your failure

The cryer limps 
With a hole in its chest,
With muscles sore,
Wearing a crown of blood.

Words like knives,
The throught is their sheath.
But it's always the broken hand
Who draws the fastest.