Day 32

…and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain…

E.A. Poe, ravenous yet moody, pre-Lexapro

With belted tack on armchair back, my puffing lair,
I often stare at curtain’s tassel-rustle through to Pettigrew.
In time eyes close, and hear then I the whisper near:

“Must I who wilt in shrunken womb not yet born
Yearn too soon to swag my long and stammered wail,
A testy trampled, wind-torn tale,
Cruel Caution’s careless cavalier?”

“I am the ghost of Pennycourt blog
That habits this dimpled shelter-fog.
Endless words and worthless scraps
Are stumbling, ‘guised as thought knickknacks”

“A ghost, I wait on birth, renewed,
To say, today, your death’s commence
Now that is outlawed common sense.”

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