The Midnight Maid

The midnight maid comes to clear
The cobwebs from my mind,
Dusting off the dementias
And pulling the forbidden thoughts
From their dark and narrow corners
Where they twist and squirm
Like charcoal paintings
Brought to epileptic life.

Her broom brushes over
The dismembered mannequins
That are littered across the floor:
A plastic genocide.

She whispers as she works,
Black secrets dripping from her lips,
Staining her dress with their passage.

There is a mirror in here
That’s been broken and pasted together
More times then there are memories.
She looks at the mirror and laughs,
Cracking it yet again.