A Dose Of Gothic, Part 2

I looked at my pillow,
My pillow turned red;
I called a physician,
He said it’s your stress.
Your pillow was white
As a ghost in a bed,
If I’m not mistaken
Your ghost has since bled.
The ghost of your sanity,
Do not be misled,
She called out profanities
When shot on the bedspread;
Then the ghost of your pride
Who ate her own legs,
And the incumbent bride
Without any flesh
Or corporeal content
On shoulders so slender
Bereft of her head;
Is it no wonder
Your pillow is red.

I gripped the night-doctor,
Foreboding fuelled dread;
I shook him for sense
As he cut off the phone line,
My voice and mouth wed.
I washed the case for a week and a day;
The more I washed, the redder betrayed
Like a Sun on Blood Moon or
Bald eagle days, I lost myself
To a dark disarray. They found me,
The officers, odd notebooks in hand,
With the doctor beside me,
His gunsmoke criss-crossing
This smouldering land,
My blood turned to white,
My last soul unmanned.

There Is A Version Of Me

There is a version of me
Seven steps ahead,

He implored that I should follow,
Spinning a spider’s thread.

He led me over marshes
Where mallow-long laments,

We toured the northern caverns,
Where habit-froth ferments.

I asked him, where are we going,
His resolute manifest mute,

Without reply, I remained unknowing
Of purpose to his shameful route.

For he stole from me my compass,
He stole from me my hope,

And all the things that I should be
Are buried on those slopes.

If you see me wild and wandering,
Unarmoured man, who once was kind,

You are not viewing me, but him,
My grave was seven years behind.