Too many
too closed
a narrow hallway
in your mind,
opens to a smaller opening
much too small,
too easy
to familiarize yourself
with the anatomy of
a ghost,
traveling, the wind,
a form resting state,
forever locked inside a room,
suicide leaks its secrets,
for years, hundreds even,
it smells of emotions
deprived of connection,

doesn't take a genius,
to take emotions to read,
that whatever happened in that room,
200 years before me,
a human being,
walked amongst their friends, their family, her husband everyday,
her eyes went unchecked,
the state of healing,
likely obvious,
a super imposed, individual repose,
over exterted, grossly overstated,
her eyes must have recorded her life,
as a zealous zombie,
sneaking out to the porch at night to silently cry,
the actress of disguise
no one saw within her
while she, alive,
reduced her size, of dreaming to see an ocean,
she's only heard of from neighbors, of men on horseback,
she shoved herself back into her cage, each mornings
saturation of such is day,
no one knew she,
harmonized, daydreaming
death, as a destressor,
silent oppressor of living,
when no one notices,
she retreated to this kitchen quarter,
tightened a noose, her husband foolishly taught a woman how to do,
it doesn't take but a reader of emotions eyes,
to know,
that she lives in that room,
jailed by her sorrow,
that nobody noticed in her waking life.