The Ghosts Are Laughing

Within the bony armor

of this disordered mind

ticks a callous timepiece;

a ruthless agent of judgment

there to punish, to remind.

Like slowly dripping water,

its monotony is unrelenting,

straining the thin threads

suspending my desperation.

Its claw-like hands reach out,

slashing honed razors,

each tick slicing deeply

into my tenuous sanity.

Teetering over the edge,

I topple into affectless isolation

and the refuge of memory.

I try but can’t remember

that one last moment

of contented silence,

that perfect frame of

simple, sweet stillness.

And I can’t always discern

realities from fantasies,

or truths from imaginings,

inside my mental carnival.

Confused and perplexed,

I ask the questions aloud

but the ghosts only laugh.

They already know the things

I have yet to learn

in the hardest of ways.

Inevitably I will learn

—I am learning—

that being alone,

being lonely always,

being nothing forevermore

is a burden far greater

than I have ever known

and I cannot bear it.

So, like the ghosts before me,

I will dream of the Boatman

and passage into the void

to surrender myself

unto the Timekeeper

and beg him to stop the clock.