she was my mother’s aunt a frail waif forgotten as a prisoner inside a ghastly asylum
it stands to this day a grim mausoleum of the past looking forward to escape the ghosts which haunt corridors of horror & spectres dance thinly on the shadowed walls
she is such a ghost and carries a lantern with its sole candle lit
and dim shadows reflect the walls of her hell like a votive lamp
a scar of unknown provenance ensculpted the cortex of her brain
as if to provide a lightening rod of inspiration or death or birth
they are the same like a circle
women gifted with birth can be annointed with these shards of lightning some die others lay stricken by a harsh illness the victim of a heavenly murderer
in older days they were holy fools inhabited by devils to be exorcised or fated as prophets of some esoteric knowledge incomprehensible as Holy Scripture from another planet
those cursed are fated to live in a purgatory of suffering, and death is welcome like a cool breeze
no word of a lie
she fitted to death chained to an iron bed
Flynnpoetry 