(Continues from Savor)
Senseless I was but making sense of this
mystery’s my only course since my death.
There’s nothing left for me but to solve this.
I’m in too deep, and I’ve breathed my last breath.
Following the devil’s my only choice.
Where he’s leading me, no one will rejoice.
I stepped free of the building and held out my arms to the wind. Lifting me up, it filled my sails (jacket) and carried me through the waking city. My quarry kept his demons on short leashes. A good thing since the city’s inhabitants were on the move and there was enough human-induced road rage to go around. No demon interference needed. Still, the creepy duo managed to swipe another pair of gooey croissants. When they started popping golden hash browns, I punched the lifting fog. My fist passed through a window doing neither the glass nor my hand any harm in the process.
Come on you louts, get your arses moving. Show me your lair or your leader. Let’s end this thing.
They ignored my silent command and kept on sauntering. Well, this was New York. Even devils had to take in the sights. I followed the bizarre trio to the World Trade Center PATH station. I knew it. The devil did live in Jersey. I waited outside until I heard the train rattling along the tracks. Breaking from my hiding spot, (a well-placed hydrant) I ghosted into the station and onto the train.
Being noncorporeal has its advantages. I sailed right through walls and floors ignoring the stairs and the sleepy travelers trudging down them. I entered the last car as the train pulled out. My quarry had opted for the second car. I had ten minutes before we reached Hoboken to glide up to the car behind theirs. Or I thought I had until the train rushed into a tunnel under the Hudson River.
My body stretched, and I felt a tether anchoring me to something in New York. It refused to tear so my essence went molecular scrambling my thinking. Whatever material made up my ghostly self, strained and threatened to unravel. Shock broke my grip on the train, and it rushed on without me. I landed in a translucent, senseless heap on the tracks.
~ ~ ~
For OctPoWRiMo, 31 poems in 31 days–all part of one story. Watch me do it.
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