Anne Woodborne

Incantation

Don’t think, don’t speak, don’t feel.
Panic pushes, fear rushes,
don’t think, down the wormhole
of hidden truths, unspoken things.
Stifled screams, dragon wings.
Don’t think, don’t speak, don’t feel,
past the battened hatches
into dungeon dark, hidden things
from my desiccated past.
Husks of moths, skeleton leaves,
petals of paper and whispering wings.
a musty fragrance, weakened bars,
a breath of air and a strangled gasp.
I cry out loud at their fragile state,
they exist, my forgotten selves of
don’t think, don’t speak, don’t feel.
Up they rise from twisted pits,
tremulous, nebulous deadened cries
choked to death in my throat’s demise.
Behind battered heart and shuttered eyes,
shadows, buried images ghostly dreams of
don’t think, don’t speak, don’t feel.

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