The Demon In My Ceiling
Never been to jail,
But my thoughts come,
Tattered and confined,
Like the two cellular bars—
That confine me.
Where there once was room for two
Now stands a solitary mast,
On an empty prairie
Whose sole conversation is—
Whispers to the wind
Where we used to laugh,
Now only silence's tyranny rules—
And dead signals from you.
The nights now fold like collars
And I button the silence over my throat
Tightly, chocking...
Enervating.
Storms are normal, they say.
But this came like the devil’s wind—
Stripped the roof, left me clutching splinters.
When I needed your anchor,
I found only static.
Like the noise before the storm
Now these distances are cold—
To the touch,
And without coverage.
Now I teeter,
Rust consuming my base — station,
Like a diseased splinter.
Should I rush the edge?
And take flight
Or harness my emptiness
On the masts high?
Or medicate to cure—
This disease?
Confined, drink won’t satiate
And hope is a sardonic—
Voice
Should I shout?
So you hear my cry
Or should I stay this way?
Let the signal die
Or stay,
And fight—
The demon in my ceiling?
Or pull the cord…?
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