Thoughts, Stories, The Poem
we may become creeping things…
Mitchel David Ring
in from the cold to wood smoke and bare stone and fear…
Am I exorcised?
I want my degradation from the top shelf…
I wish to taste of pain you have long endured…
to the dark haired woman…
there is something left of it…
sit a while, she said, in the company of old ghosts…
something must be left to the fire…
Darling you knew this day would come…
I don’t want to worship you…
someone has to feel the rain on their skin…
it is already decaying…
I’m tired of making a fool of myself…
my salvation is none of your concern…
Mitchel David Ring 