These old ghosts. They stink of dust and candle wax. So many broken promises, lost love, and letters to the dead. Haunted by the coming of autumn and the falling of dying leaves. Fields of corn where I escape to when reality becomes too much. She sleeps so tender yet her tongue is cursed. Her belly pained, she cries to the moon as all that never was mocks her so shamelessly. Pretty eyes and stairwells leading to hell. It’s just a dream yet the loneliness is real like the crows that keep pecking at my outstretched hands. I’m writing despite my lazy mind. Against the allure of doing nothing, I’m making a stand against the failure that awaits. Faith not placed in another, but in this stupid heart that keeps beating despite what’s thrown at it. It should’ve drowned by now, yet it keeps itself afloat. Night terrors and the fear of not being understood. For real, yet with nothing to show for it except words. Perseverance. Determined like a blade cutting through the flesh of a dead pig. Like a sleepless fool in love with ideas instead of people. Rip out the pages of your book and start again. Hot flushes as midnight awaits. Cigarettes and bellyaches. History never dies, and that’s where she is, right where she belongs. Untouchable by moonlight, with a throat so pale as the sea carries her away. Through stalks of corn I witness terror and salvation in equal measure. Pained regret as the wheels spin on a dirt track, there’s no hope of this being true come morning. Breathe it in, and gaze at that face. Keep it hidden until your time is nearly up. Let it become your saviour as you travel to the darkened realms of what lies beyond. So much hangs in the balance, and all that can be done is to write myself a future no one else could know. Against the rest, we resist what we don’t feel. Others have society, but society is for lizards. Cold and grey, like a million yesterdays you’d rather forget.