Filled with the shrill
laughter of phantoms,
this desolate space uplifts
in an unconventional sense.
When such music
penetrates my dense head,
I get, you know, spiritual.
Words and their residual
meanings melt into malleable
wax whose feel thrills
my diminishing fingers,
and the waning light provides
the last warmth I’ll ever know.
How delicious! the sensual play
of shadows against
these crumbling walls,
advancing and retreating
like ocean waves or lovers.
How I long to be swallowed
in their murky embrace,
dissolved in their luscious
ever-thickening dark.
-r. miller
Multiple Phantasms
Published
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