by Callum McGuire -
morning melts,
thawed by leaves alight
with mortality.
colourful cadavers crunched underfoot,
their brittle bones
bear consensus
on the beauty of death.
gatecrashers to demise’s debutante,
behind Autumn doors we find respite
from
a thousand
hammering
fists.
our slow swoon wards off
the urgency to live.
October recalls
all we are not,
a conspiracy of ghosts
decry your fate
in childhood’s refrain:
“what are you
supposed to be?”
that empty, eye-holed sheet
propped by a stubborn
unpresence,
I see no convincing evidence
for my existence.
persistent still,
I try to commune with the other side.
they aren’t in right now
but if I leave a message,
they might get back to me.
I know where all the bodies are buried
having pressed the fresh earth down myself.
tonight,
I awaken them
I need the company.
Cal is an adventurer in the land of post-college life. Their interests include anthropology, playing music and screaming into an apathetic void. They have been published in UCC's Quarryman, The Same Page Anthology, Revisiting Inspiration, and many other journals that are just too secret to talk about.
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