Gothic Thoughts Poem by grace mariner

There is a decaying mansion inside of my head.
Within dwell the demons, caretakers of the ghosts of all I've lost.
They are fed on pieces of my fragmented ego, jagged and splintered like bones baked in the sun.
But no sun shines here now, so their brittle nature comes from the careful nurturing of a damaged self...
my authentic self.
I've known these caretakers all of my life,
an asset of being born feral.
They are always there.
They do not lie,
but they will distort, leaving their charges to decide which reality they choose.
They hover close to my face as I sleep,
whispering their vile interpretations and reminding me daily,
of what is no longer mine yet remains ever close,
close enough to taste and smell and hear,
but never to be touched again.
They parade their ghostly captives before me,
mocking, cackling at the cruel reality they present.
And their sadness is like my own as they wish to escape it all,
and be free to live again.
But the fascists will not let them go, so they inhabit their decaying grave,
day after day
night after night
choking down their thorny scraps in this ancient tomb.
And as the slave rules the Master, so I hold the key to unlock their prison
and set them free.
To set myself free.
Oh but that fear of what we don't know is our greatest motivator
to remain unmoved, unchanged.
How do you let go of the pain when it is the only comfort you've known?
It is your Master, your drug, your muse, your reminder of wasted lives,
lives spent in pursuit of something you don't understand but crave
like an addict nonetheless.
And so you give the demons the power,
as the slave does the Master.
And although inches from your heart, the touch of those lost is light years away.
The caretakers allow us to remember their captives.
The cost for this self injurious behavior,
for this mutilation of the heart,
for this sequestering of the innocent and the guilty,
Is incalculable.