Phantasmagoria

Fleeing a parade
Of hideous faces,

Vulnerable even
In lamps’ oases,

Insecure
In all usual safe places.

I want to erase
The mind’s concoctions,

Create distance
Push back darkness—

But your rebus
Haunts my empty pages,

And writes on walls
With sepia letters.

Perhaps, I am
A fake, a poseur,

Unlettered, driven,
Living covert,

Stealthy and cautious,
Soul encumbered,

Fears darker
Than clock face numbers.