Stream of thoughts flowing in blank space

The Ghost living with the yellow dust

They told me to put on my best attire. Be patient, the cuckoo will come. 

And as they told me, I quietly sat down on the chair waiting for the bird to drop by.

Meaningless burdens got on my mind. I never should have left the wood to chip. Some chairs are graced as antiques. Mine were just old. But of course those thoughts were just to pass the time.

When the cuckoo knocked, I uttered goodnight and with one last breath, I blew out the twined candlewick. I dreamt a pictureless dream, worse than a nightmare. When there is nothing left behind the eyelids, you call out for the night terrors. Anything is better than being left dreamless.

When the poem of the cuckoo was heard no more, I opened my eyes again. I saw a space all coated in indigo, with windows tightly shut. No loved ones were waiting for me. I screamed in dismay, where are they?

And they will think that the tapestry got ruined by the time. The backing must have peeled off after all the years passed by. Will they know that I screeched on the walls until my nails were bloody? May the one who built the bricks be damned, It's his fault a soul got left behind.

The dogs will howl and they will tell them to shut up. The silent evening tea shouldn't be disturbed. But they don't know that it is an ode, a respectful lament for the long face graved between the windows.

In the night I pray to twenty three Maries to come for one last salvation. As I am the Ghost living with the yellow dust, under the roof that it will almost collapse.