The curse was generational.
Your reflection adumbrated
the fate of this family tree
in every mirror, at every angle.
Family lineage
etched beneath your epidermis.
A mole, a marking,
and an unrequited love for self
due to what lies beneath.
The rings within the stump
age this endless cycle.
The resistance to change
perpetuates the ill individual.
And we cannot tame our blood,
for it is furnished with leather seating;
the smell both stale and familiar.
Chaos looms in orbs of yellow smoke
in the living room.
But we breathe it in,
because chaos is all we know.
We will hold these traditions,
like a ghoul with a candelabra.
Floating through the hallway
and down the stairs,
counting the amount of steps
in this heirloom of a house.
We will hold these traditions
and keep them secret;
too blinding for the light.
-Poetry Party Ghost
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Party Ghost
PoetryNeed a break from the noise? The ultimate survival guide to being socially awkward is here. Read into the mind of the poetry party ghost, a fellow playing the fly-on-the-wall to an assortment of situations in the world. Hear them ramble about all yo...
