The bees buzzing through thick air,
the calls of church bells rising with morning,
and the vacant streets filling with sound from
cars, trucks, and barking dogs,
bring the humming of sleeping ghosts awakening;
time won’t stand still under my head,
and the weight of melancholia sets its home
on my sleepy shoulders, heavier than boulders,
digging into the skin under my neck.
Then, I start my daily cries to God
to save me from this vile despair,
born of nothing and everything.
But, when even his voice can not excise the ghosts
nesting on my eyelids, I paint my tears
on the artificial sky, below the burning moon
and above the burgeoning ache expanding like
my elastic heart, into clouds of black smoke.
Helena Malheur © 2010