the cutting room

the cutting room 

the sounds of the night desert me

my mind seized by ill-fates once more

as ripples dispatched by the ferry

lick down this plutonian shore

dark deeds in my lifetime like flotsam

sailing past in the after-light gloom

arrested in moments so shattered

and birthed from my cutting room womb

memories I locked in dark corners

the ones that break silence at night

festering fears held for too many years

malignance I can’t overwrite

but the ferryman points one gnarled finger

at me, then the scenes floating by

his empty black eyes hold mine for a while

then he turns with a near soundless sigh

he claimed no coin for their passage

each fare paid in full long before

remnants returning to those they came from

and I draw in night’s sweet air once more