Contemplation

The ghost of me

The moonlight shimmers and the breeze whispers. The woods creak in distress and the clouds hang low.

The roads, long and winding, blind me, headlights searching for a way out and I find none.

I slow my speed but feel the trees watching. I make it home, there is no fog, only round the outside of my car. I make it too the door, it's locked. I hit the door, first timidly then harshly, spit flying,screaming for someone to let me in. No one hears me as if I am a ghost of my own self.

My breath is loud, I feel the tingling of spiders on my spine.

I turn slowly, the headlights are off, the cars silent. The porch light switches off.

My swampy eyes adjust quickly, alert with fear.

I can see it before it's at my feet. The silence is eerie, ringing. An owl cries out, the fog touches my ankles, cool as winters grasp, dragging me down the steps and into the night, my head hits something hard and I try to escape it's grip but I fail.
I watch my car door open, I appear.

I walk to the door, stiff, robotic, emotionless, a cracked version of myself.

I am here but there.

As I am swallowed by blackness, the carbon copied, empty body of mine opens the door, no struggle and makes it home.

Just as I have before I have lost the fight.

But one day my soul will strengthen, grow muscles made of iron and a body made of sunlight which will light the way back to where I belong.

One day I pray