Reaching Elena (my Sweet Pareidolia)

She believed in the Christian afterlife, still,
Elena shrugged off eternal damnation
and took herself out. Oh, deed.
Pretty much the ending I would’ve envisioned:
dirt and flowers.
Somewhat poetic when I think about it.

She loved poetry.
From our time together, I guess it rubbed off:
an appreciation for old verse, and a belief in some kind of hereafter.
There was a time when I was indifferent to both.
It all changed one morning.

From the radio,
distinct to my unfocused ear, came
an obsolete phrase intended only for me.
Cloaked in guitars, but present nonetheless:
“Felo-de-se!”
Her confession.
“Felo-de-se!”
An invitation from a ghost, reaching.

We should’ve left together.
Songs with secret lyrics, and hidden voices recounting not the how, nor the where,
only the why-
suggest we be joined in perdition.
Ours, the same disease.
The same demons.
Always hidden, but not from the unfocused eye:
floral patterns on wallpaper- on sheets, reveal
the deformed scowling faces of infernal creatures.
Most disturbing:
the reappearing image of a twisted dragon.

Sedate,
at her funeral, my head was captured by flowers.

I’m weary of living
with ghosts, and demons.
In the winter dusk, with the main road looking white as fine china,
I’ll reach her.
Gunning it, sticking throttle to damnation,
not every song carries her voice: this highway sings in a different pitch.
Not all found shapes
frown with evil intent.
The oncoming vehicle, why
it’s got one hell of a grin!