OLD HAUNTS

That verse prick
madness
swells in my soul.

My pen
becomes an ink needle
stabbing my penchant
for creative coma.

Born of fright
tethered by flight
I ascend
the stairs of longing
one more fateful step.

Returning
to the echoing chambers
and concrete carnage
where I see
death masks
as empty reminders
that life is just
a heartbeat.