You know you should lay your ghosts, but you've
become used to them.
You make your bed at eve, stretch ghosts over the
mattress, let the insane bed tuck up your dunes,
hide your dreams under the pillow.
"You have made your bed, and you must lie on
it"
At dawn you wash away the nightmares and wait for
the daymares and the spectral echoes of canned
laughter.
You swallow yourself - later it won't help to put
your finger down your throat. There won't be a
finger, there won't be a throat.
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