She’s Haunted

No one else can see what’s going on
therefore no one understands.
Somethings you just cannot explain
so you keep them to yourselves.
She blames the screams upon nightmares,
the bumps, bruises and scratches
are merely results of epileptic fits (Clever!)
She awakens to tongue
thick with chalk and marrow.
Mirror shard cool between her grinding legs.
Broken twigs and finger bones
applaud the obscenery
of the moonless, midnight forests
of her unstable, jagged mind.
‘Ticket Collectors have sinister smiles’
Penny jars full of emotional scars
fill the shelves of the corner hovel
at Witches Lane & Fairfax Cemetery.
Insanity is a mathematical equation
frustratingly absurd and incomplete.
She’s cowering instead of running
for she’s not paranoid or being chased…
no, like a tawny owl in a biscuit box
rolling down a Tor… she’s already caught.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.