His footprints always meet, not here, but only
In your mind’s eye;
Night’s horizons a dream when you embark
Into the womb of the full moon.
In a dark suit, in an old trench coat,
He unleashes nightmares from his
Satchel, a full-tilt unholy night wrecked sleep,
Lulled into a darkened oblivion.
Tossed and turned around in doom-struck slumber,
Bone shank thoughts will blunder you into a wet drench;
Rave on in a quicksand nemesis lullaby
While the clock hands tick in shaded ambivalence.
The moon leans down hard like a brazen harlequin
Mocking you, flicking light on and off,
Black and white, much as a ranting jackanape
Fluting a stiff march into a deaf.
The paradox is that the nightmare’s the thing,
Though this primadonna won’t leave a trace, knows
How to lacerate a sleep wound,
Withers dreams into a hell surrender.
Then the awakening, pay the piper
With tears; rationed through a kaleidoscope
Of shapes and absolutes;
Congealed into a knowing, a polemic scattering
Into the narrow crack of sleeplessness;
Cradled deep in a suspense, defenseless as a
Sitting duck, knocked down by a blind shot;
All your senses carol for a respite.
Copyright © 06/17/18 lance sheridan®