Works by Ben Balazs

I see you, friend, in the shadows, Lost in the darkness of this room, Fading into a nondescript wallpaper, And refusing to call for help, Afraid you should be mistaken for an Apparition. I see you, though I must spread my pupils wide To paint your silhouette, To trace the liniments of your extremities. I know you are there because my eyes Can make out the aura of your figure, And though you may shield Your gruesome face, With the help of your gnarled claws, I can, with this canvas of a room - In the infinite darkness of each corner and wall - Design in my mind the echoes of A sweet child, Whose skin finds no blemish, Whose hands show no wrinkles, Whose teeth bare no stains... So long as you whisper to me, I shall not see a ghost, Nor some feral fiend, I see only you, friend.

What to you may be a simple smile, Or a friendly hug, Or a waving hand, Is to me the welcoming steam Of fresh chicken soup Over a calloused nose. It is the traction between cold bed sheets And my goose-bumped skin, Sheltering me from the responsibilities Of days prior. Your glance in my direction is The first stream of hot water That drizzles upon my bare back, Washing away all uncertainty In my mind. As I think of you, I cannot help but think of all The little pleasantries That sprinkle my routines. The individual brush strokes That inform a painting; The planks of wood That compose a house; Were I ever a sentence, I could only hope for you to be The period that completes me.

The labor of love If it were ever a chore And not a warm sensation, May appear as a shotgun wedding. Pew pews arranged like a courtroom, The jury of leering peers, The case already lost, The only defense a pool of tears upon his cheek. Objections in the form of wedding gifts, Rental dresses, and lukewarm cake. The honeymoon as sweet as Saltine crackers can be, Without water to wash it all down, Or money to wish it away, Must be swallowed by the mouthful. The children whine because their mother's milk Tastes bitter, and the flavor of breakfast eggs seems lacking and bland, Compared to the dry aroma of a house Built upon the debt paid by a Husband and Wife.

Fleeting, I would describe that ghost as flitting across a screen. A shadow by all means, but a Person, certainly; I could not surmise what end They would meet, Should the door be opened, The veil unveiled, The screws loosed, Prying a board from its floor, Only to reveal a stained-glass window, From which appears a depiction of  Jesus, or some other saintly face Bright enough to illuminate My rights and wrongs.

The silence bowed graciously before me, Including in its curtsy a foreboding sign, And folding into itself as I lay, Roared louder than its petty size ought permit. And although it was quiet, Cold, and lonesome, The mossy walls implied their pleasure By clapping furiously at the shades. So I lay wondering, indecisively, Whether that audience was there for Me, Or if all the music playing until now, Was my own desperate fiction.