Spectre

driving winds
pushing the sun into the ground
holding the clouds over us
like the razor at the end of a pendulum

and our heart beats
thump thump thump
and we haven’t even found a reason to feel guilt
but we push against our innocence
like a thief

and a hand
from the specter
buried beneath the floorboards rises
ripping the carpet
splintering the wood

and we’re meant to feel
(what exactly?)
anything at all

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