Poltergeist
My mind is like a haunted house,
and you are the restless spirit;
the poltergeist inside of it.
But in fact, it’s not really you:
it's just the remain of a once-called-precious vestige
of my love for you.
On everywhere you left your marks:
your footsteps on squeaky floors
and ancient, curving stairways
of my brain’s convolution.
Pushing away the movables of my memory,
capsizing my once-cozy chairs,
just keep knocking on every doors and walls of mine,
while precipitating my windows’ shutters
you never let me find my sleep again in this terrible noise.
Like a maddened, vertiginous wind-tornado
you're sweeping over my rooms.
I can’t cope with cleaning up after you.
Seems like a Sisyphean task:
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to finish it.
The whole place is such a mess;
a chaotic merry-go-round of lurking shadows,
soul-snatching darkness and gloom:
a diorama of nightmares.
There’s no use to call a priest;
no exorcism can cure and purify
these impious halls.
The four corners of these chambers would be sanctified just in vain,
because you ate yourself within this place:
the worm-eaten furnitures, the dingy carpet,
the musty smell of blighted walls,
the moth-eaten, brocade and velvet curtains of emotions,
the lost shelter of our baldachin bed.
You just wander and haunt there inside of me,
the limbo-threshold of my mind.
You’ve become the captive, yet keeper and leader
of my own hell.
Like a mischievous rodent,
your memory chews everything.
Like a worm, you perish the wood:
the wooden beam which structured my spine.
My locket and keys become rusty,
the air turns to stale and musty.
All around just ripped canvases with repellent paint,
damaged-broken, cracked torso-sculptures:
I’ll be soon devoured by decay.
And no light will be able to shed inside me.
I’ll become overshadowed; abysmal-dark and abandoned
like an old, ramshackle house which is about to collapse.
Our love is also just an echo,
a screaming one of the glorious past
which is heard throughout the windy-dark corridors.
Once it was a song, I ought to remember its melody,
but, by now only word-fragments
and sound-snatches are being able to recall.
No one can leave this place,
even I am incapable of doing it.
You do not let me. And so do I.
Only this wretched exile left,
just waiting here stoically, feebly
for the redeeming wreckage.
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