Vapors from the Past

The bubbling of my inner boil Rises to the top, sticks In my throat—wavering. A lump sits in protest, Demanding new voices, A breath of fresh air. The stale evaporations remain within me. I know them with closed eyes, Yet my mind mistakes them For incarnations Of those who cross my path. Who are you that knocks at my door? An unannounced visit From a creeping, bygone neighbor. I pry open the vault. It intoxicates every pore Of my withered skin. My knees buckle Beneath the weight of this sickly heart. In the illusion of my shattered bones, I weep with the ground— And fertilize each seed That promises A new faith, A hope to stand with two feet Without the crutch That leans heavy On the rails of humanity.