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Froy Andrei Bibon Poem
Haunting
the room’s a mess.
the ouija’s in pieces.
the writings on the wall don’t even make sense anymore.
yet you grin lovingly,
leaving behind that gunk as a trail.
{your ectoplasm’s a nightmare to clean}
our dining table’s translucent,
as you’ve instructed.
the food, hardly intact.
Yet you play with your food, as you’ve done so my innards.
[Explain. Why should I be the one to suffer, an immeasurable; when you’re the one I’ve seen suffer, THE IMMEASURABLE]
Copyright © Froy Andrei Bibon | Year Posted 2022
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