White Space
Shloka Shankar
I stand just outside the circle
of death and organ-music
with three teeth,
eyes lost in sockets of shadow,
and my fun-bones still fully attached.
50
I scream as sanity leaves
the far roads of my mind;
a headache in the nerves
as I reach around the wall
of the real world—
the dry floor of my tongue
a white space on society’s map.
A remixed poem composed from select lines
from chapters 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 9, and 12 of
Bag of Bones by Stephen King