GHOSTS BEHIND THE WALLS

We cut ourselves some rope, we slice our hands from thumb to wrist. We smash our ankles against walls ands force our eyes to open. We are on directionless journeys to somewhere, to nowhere, maybe to everywhere. The blisters on our lips tell us that we've given up speaking, given up chanting for doors to open, for windows to break. We are adrift in cosmic oceans, oceans dead and empty, we are adrift in ethers yet to unfold. So you move the cup on the table and you shift your chair. Your broken hands, with distended fingers sit heavy in your lap, or they rest on the table in front of you, jittering and sliding with the fear of intent. Letters and symbols twist themselves around and through our souls, they choke our thoughts and stifle our blood. There are ghosts on the stairs, ghosts behind the walls, ghosts sitting at the table. Grey hands fidget and slide, fidget and slide. It is enough to dream, it is enough to murmur - chant the numbers, exhaust the symbols. Stand up on your broken ankles, lift your arms towards the sky, sing high towards the stations, sing the tongues of death and take your place.