Famished hags taunt old men,

words yellow from age

sound as hollow as an old bone.

Shadows magnify shapes into illusions

sewn into tiny crevices left for an

imagining madness.

A lamp glows saffron revealing deceitful

secrets, what’s been kept in velvet boxes

that runs away a confidence under my feet.

A scare dances in my mind that harbors

wild regrets, cheap talk that brings a withered

song to the table, where there is never

enough to eat.

paulygrl ©