Monday, March 9, 2015

Monday Morning

Silver gray threads weaving 
The tender brush of the back of 
your knuckles across my cheek.
Tumbling d
                      n  the rabbit hole
without a sound.
Extracting meters and meters of raven black string, 
a chord from deep 
within my flesh 
All at once shredding and relieving 
my nerves from within.
Frog amicable amphibian 
Morphing into a hag cackling beside me
In the backseat of the '68 Oldsmobile.
Loosened and lost teeth
Gaping chasms 


Walking among gram's prize roses 
Her adept hands pruning, dusting, appearing and disappearing 
A hint of her chartreuse sweater taunting me from behind the shrub only
To vanish when I rush round the roses

Foghorning into the cotton muffled corners of my mind 
Rendering the delicate 
silver gray threads asunder.
Unraveling my stories
Nuclear meltdown siren
Harshly ejecting me
Thrusting me from the once lulling tumultuous waves of sleep 
the dawn.
the alarm...

"There is nothing more boring than other people's dreams." Quentin Jacobsen in John Green's Paper Towns

"The dream is the liberation of the spirit from the pressure of external nature, a detachment of the soul from the fetters of matter." Sigmund Freud 

1 comment:

  1. Some of the greatest works of art are without definition. You ascribe it your own. I'm not sure how to describe this, other than to say I thoroughly relished the experience of the journey your words provide.