Mallory Malloy.
Melding into faux leather
Turning green to match my ire.
Who is she?
That strange thing crouched in the trash can
Waiting to burst forth,
Buried in a sea of paper towels.
She's bleeding pity
On those pale pink walls
Seven called about,
But the endless barrage of cattle
Never hear over their
Noisy swallows and timed defecations
While staring at those same pink stalls,
Chewing over last's months columns.
Paradise sits above her horizon
Teasing worn out eyes
With their failed attempt at spreading God
Through glimpses of our own created Eden -
My own eyes close with vines,
Grass grows out my ears,
She took her belongings with her
Leaving me boxed on spinning wood
Without saying goodbye.
I am a Ghost.
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