A Poem: The Dream

Sometimes I awaken with

my hands

burned black.

there is no pain, only tremulous

anxiety as I lift them

and see needles have stuck my fingers

Which leave cracked imprints of blood

upon my eyes

and down my face like tribal paint.

This nightmare– this void–

is where souls feast upon people

who carry them, from the deep, dark that lies inside.

This is where things are not always as they seem,

as I appear to be, lost

within this murky and perse land

of strangers who walk the path towards

the fork. Never

seeing where they are going or

what they have turned their back on,

only the people who have forsaken them.

And the difference between these vacant,

consumed people

and myself

is not the gaping chasm I thought it was.

I have been stripped down, facing a future, alone

with my own ravenous soul,

It’s beak, it’s– talons

ripping, peeling at my wings

trying to keep me grounded

trying to keep me in the safety net

of the world that I have always known.

But I must see beyond this house, this town,

I must flip on the light

and reach forward and seek my own face in the glass

and wipe away

this painted world.


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