Day of the Dead

I didn’t expect
To see a rebus
At my door…

Enigma,
With nameless face

Who didn’t
Expect to see me either
Vainly pacing the floor—

Distraught,
Gloomy
As a secret sea—

That's me:
Fraught
With vast discrepancies…

Motives hidden
From myself—
Opaque, blurry

Elusive
As northern lights

But not scary
Or transparent.

Merely conflicted
As this presence.

And to what purpose
You might ask:

Well, I’m haunted,
More than any rainy phantom.

It’s the hazard
Of a writer
Occupying
A house of secrets—

Waking at midnight
And sleeping at dawn.

I don’t deny it
But accept my lot...

Struggling with demons
That can’t be recalled—

Clouded by feelings
That can’t be resolved.