By David Kokumo
I have a stifled pulse in my veins.
Dreams; enterprises you dodge.
A certain omen tarries around
And speaks of luck, a sorry one.
An epoch of a past that lay mangled.
A dirty skeleton in a polished cupboard.
Mother says something about redemption
But this once, I doubt my mother.
Ghosts sit in my parlor
And wait—sordidly—for dinner.