All these times, I still live in my past,
Wearing a mask even indoors,
At midnight, starring into darkness
With phantoms, roaming above the floors.
Quiet entourages of hometown Gods and Demons,
They follow me like my shadow,
Holding a knife to my throat
when solitude sneaks in via the window.
Blocking out disconcerting sentiments,
Looking up at stars, that shine bright,
I wonder what are the driving elements
sending them our way on a glint of light.
My entry to Jingle Poetry Potluck Week 47, Theme: history and stories.
Alphabe-Thursday: Q is for questions