Purgatory Calling


The essence of the thing stimulated:

Fog; Nothingness; Self,

a vortex of spinning grey.

Time stalled, backtracked, leapt forward,

my eyes uncomprehending

of what other senses detailed.

I dizzied and derailed,

former bluster extinguished;

I was lost.

Purgatory calling, claimed the mist,

and it was, and it did, and it took all of me

even my smile.


20 thoughts on “Purgatory Calling

  1. Born and raised a Catholic, Purgatory was always a sinister half way house, a nebulous parole, a piss stained bus stop with broken windows that always echoed Bob Dylan’s words about No Direction Home

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