Interior, by Edgar Degas (b. France), 1868 or 1869.


There’s a hollow man
who haunts me, a spectre
at my door, watching
from the shadows
as I slip from daytime
layers. Borne on the wild
flowering of my thirteenth spring,
he’s a constant invader,
a taker of things
not offered, a betrayer
of all I could have been.

Ryan Stone

Written for the 20 poem challenge at Ekphrastic, September 2016.

First published at Black Poppy Review, September 2016


11 thoughts on “Interior

  1. This “hollow man” piece of yourself is an interesting spectre. I don’t know if he is all good, but certainly some of him is bad. He’s a “betrayer” of all your speaker “could’ve been.” Perhaps it is potential, not unlocked in this person? Or dreams which he did not have enough guts go for because inside he felt empty, “hollow.” A fascinating poem Ryan.

    Liked by 1 person

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