My therapist said they are delusions,
these ghosts that I believe haunt me
and that the “names” I hear whispered
are merely a child’s way of labeling the unknown.
Still, I cannot stop running, cramming my mouth
full of yellow cupcakes and fruit, yet never feeling full,
all food in sight devoured, making myself sick,
to calm me, to help me buffer the dread, give me fuel
to escape, to fly from them, the four neon ghosts
that meander through the maze of my life.
My wife suffers just as I;
differentiated only by clothing, not fate -
(she’s worn the same bow in her hair for longer than I can remember)
our estrangement from dual anguish tearing us apart,
even as our perditions are so similar.
We are trapped in our own labyrinths of darkness
trying to escape our personal hells, our Minotaurs,
our four private Horsemen of our own Apocalypse:
Inky, Binky, Pinky, and Clyde.
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