Inheritance

The door is ajar.
The teen is upstairs.
The patient, dying

Feels only too stoned
From medication
Gulped down in the well. . .

And down in the well
The mind could relax,
Except it’s spooky,

These conversations
The ghost faces start
In opium dreams—

And down in the well
They’re half an army,
And all talkative.

You surface, alarmed
For your sanity,
But down in the well

You can’t defeat them,
Debate them clearly—
They’re ancient versions

Of people you knew,
Mangled together
With a chance to prove

That down in the well,
Bottom of the drought,
What you can’t know yet

Can scare you to death,
Yet not directly
Harm you at all.

Still, who wants to talk
Through an open door
To twisted shadows?

It distresses you.
The teen is upstairs.
This world will be hers.