Last night I found
a dead poet in my bed
his one hand clutching a pen
the other one, bloodstained.
I didn't scream.
I dont give a fuss
over something
I expect to happen.
The autopsy revealed:
He died writing
to kill someone
that he knew was killing him
all along.
A useless struggle.
His murderer sleeps in this bedroom too.
Now the ghost of the poet
hovers in my bed,
in my table,
in everywhere I go.
He is whispering something
I cant clearly hear.
Probably, he is telling me
an unfinished, haunting tale
or secrets he discovered
while digging for voices.
Or maybe he is telling me
this another room he is fond of,
both thrilling and terrible to go to,
he says.
This morning, I woke up
to find the murderer
eating breakfast,
seated in my usual chair
telling me about his job.
The ghost beside me laughed
his voice eerie, his face stained with ink.
In confusion, I ran outside the house
both their voices in my pockets.
I did not screamed,
or fretted why they exist,
nor did I returned for breakfast.
