The Cutting Room
the sounds of the night desert me
my mind seized by ill-fates once more
as ripples dispatched by the ferry
lick down this plutonian shore
dark deeds in my lifetime like flotsam
sailing passed in the after-light gloom
arrested in moments so shattered
and birthed from my cutting room womb
memories I locked in dark corners
the ones that break silence at night
festering fears held for too many years
malignance I can’t overwrite
but the ferryman points one gnarled finger
at me, then the scenes floating by
his empty black eyes hold mine for a while
then he turns with a near soundless sigh
he claimed no coin for their passage
each fare paid in full long before
remnants returning to whom they came from
and I draw in night’s sweet air once more
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