Without the nightgown that slips down, to pool

around the feet, mere inches from the wraith

full of wrath that lurks under the bed; cruel,

the way that all lust that festers, all faith

that falls fallow, ignored, is cruel. Without

veils there’s nothing an abomination

can cling to. We are all creatures of doubt,

hunger, love, begging for release. Just one

more dust bunny lost in the gloom. Make me

real. Fear drives the faithful, lust the lover,

death the poet. I’m all three. Make me real

so I’ll burn, I’ll burn nightmarish, lewdly.

If I’m dearth, if you’re the end to hunger,

then this will take the wrath out of wraithful.

][][

Note:

It’s one thing to write about hungry ghosts, another to wake one day and find, before your time, that you’ve become one, all ravenous Id.