Dying of Boredom
Haunted house ghosts and closet skeletons unleash their moments of terror,
yet they also are subject to leaseholds and licenses which in time expire.
Rickety mansions and midnight bedrooms can wrench goose-pimply skin dry,
till finally there’s not a drop of cold sweat left.
But even if the dramatis personae of the living didn’t all have such short walk-on roles,
the ghosts in white sheets haunting them would mellow in time
from spectral demons to geriatric KKKers,
from frightful monsters to overstaying guests too gauche to leave,
engendering not fear but rather loud bored sighs and even louder ZZZs
as constant terror turns tedious.
When at last coiled scythe-waving skeletons spring forth from dusty closets
and rip off their white sheets revealing hooded black robes underneath,
when these listless death angels, when these silly jack-in-the-boxes
finally scream their tiresome boos, they will be greeted by the wide yawns of the haunted
already drained by the daily dread of simple survival and wanting only a long comfy sleep.
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