I have been neglecting to sweep the dust 

that has accumulated into a milky film 

from the bottom floor of my soul

for quite some time now

so that it makes it voraciously difficult 

for the moon to reflect any of my somewhat good

qualities, out from my shriveled pores

or empty eye sockets

It is all still there,

the dust and the grime, 

sprinkled by ghosts of familiar former foes

Bruises and fault

lines in my shadow

The life that hovers hopefully 

five feet behind

has been tapping insatiably on the back window

Yet I simply cannot find time

to make my way

to that wing of my mind

My walls have grown brittle

Nails loose

And when the midnight wind bites through the cracks

the dust dances hauntingly like a wedding gown

I was never meant to wear

The definition in my days has become indecipherable to the naked eye

Nothing more than flotsam and jetsam

Drifting in and out of corrugated moonbeams

My departure was neither intentional 

nor successful

And yet I find myself more bereft

and sunken 

than those serendipitous sleepers

six feet bellow

But what is to be expected 

when the potency of this plane

thins with each error

and all that remains to break my fall

is the hollow shell of what I once was

I crash down through a paper thin roof top

Blast through the foundation

Send the dust flying through my atmosphere

Creating a tornado of a million tiny particles, 

atoms, 

that used to comprise a life

Only to drift gently down once again

A snowy blanket

To enveil these uninhabitable bones 

Published by Alison Howe