Poetry

Step 27 (87.)

It is dark now.
What lights poisoned the sky
have had the grace to withdraw
and leave us in peace.
I sat on a small knoll to catch my breath
and I know the somnambulist sat down on the opposite bank,
but now, it is dark.
No moons. No suns.
No stars.
This dream is some kind of neo-fantasy,
so there are no headlights from passing cars.
Not even a hungry witch cruising by with a broom-lantern.
This, regrettably, is the pattern:
ideas burst in magnificent sprays of sleep-vision,
clarity beyond waking,
the mind a master summoner of psychedelic fantasies.
All based in reality, and that
is the real magic.
We know these slumber numbers, and yet
we convince ourselves of their unimportance.
Portents wait behind our eyelids
only to be waved away with sunlight
or sent packing by alarm bleats.
Then dreams get desperate, and infuse themselves
with a manic macabre energy
that streaks each picture with boulders, blood, and bones.
Monsters of various make populate these charnel funhouses
and it is ours to tangle with them, to see what makes them tick.
What rattles these bones to battle?
Why won’t these dream dogs lie while we sleep?
The mind always has much to say, and this is our only time to listen,
but the journey always ends the same way –
shrouded in unfathomable darkness.
No stars. No suns. No moons.
Just restless peace.
Someone had the grace to withdraw the lights before sleeping.
It is dark now.

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