I hand down my writings to the lady sitting across from my ghost, and she laughs her reply to where I once was.
Gravestone pennies rolls along beside me, and the doctor has no free time to make me well.
I stumble back to the weeping poison, and realise I'm just writing again.
I look to the wall of music I got sick behind and the captain throws stones at my eyes from beneath the mirror.
Dropping my pen, the sun burns my eyelids and I think maybe I see it all laid out before me.
The slaves climb trees around me, throwing spears towards my fingers, my movement frightens the children away from my memories of childhood,
I wasn't even young back then.
Skin drips from my bones, no flesh left to hide behind or between.
My cheeks wetted by tears forming laughter and pain. Theses blues won't leave me alone.
The strings scream out through the smoke filling room, my eyes sting from the fumes, the old home is ending, the memory and the melody bind together. Still looking for myself, somehow, the search continues.
'This never ends' states the letters the mailman brings everyday, up here on the hill.
Through the old trees towards the moon hanging there at the end of this poem, and tonight she looks as good as she ever has.
White with the fear and so bright without knowing.