This doesn’t feel
Quite right
As fans
Among the silence
With that whirring
Ever gently
Begin crawling
To their halt

Leaving me
No voice
But an air
Of sudden whispers
Moving softly
From what distance
These deaf ears
Just can’t disclose

Through my stale
Yet living dream
Where heads
Appear in doorways
And pale sunshine
Carries meaning
Pinning shadows
On those walls

When new dust
Is thick as light
Birthing dullness
Spawned from reason
Hiding answers
Within specters
Stealing pasts
Before days done

As they crumble
Out of frames
Growing hands
Not made of canvas
But some substance
Mixing colors
Holding shades
I fear are ghosts

Which dance close
Like lovers blessed
Lost to time
And moral choices
Begging flames
While longing candles
Carry torches
Down this hall

Bringing noise
That scares me still
Knowing night
Is nearing closer
Bearing phantoms
Fate’s illusion
Names the quiet
Peace forgets

Stopping screams
And clocks themselves
Hanging visions
Outside windows
Barely normal
If I gander
Even briefly
At their face.

– J. Pigno

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