alone

again

in ruled retreat

where air is thin

and breath is rare

and that closeness

we fake

that says we’re more

but in truth we’re less…

with unraveling strands

of pretend

hope

in thin

haunting cackles

of mocking voice..

that withers

with each wave

of invisible hand,

and ceases to be

just a little more

each

time-

and i,

hole up

once again

in my skin

of naked worthlessness

and unclaimed

promise

where

haunted witches

go

to die.