Inkwell 2018-2019

toward the mires and bogs of subconsciousness: the nightmare nest where wet tunes echo through the chasm like a metronome keeping time, where the wretched hide from the light. But like a casket, lay it closed, lay it closed, but not without looking. I was told to follow my dreams down the basement steps that descend into darkness;

they whisper-pull like hunger and stir awake the night hour. I try to avoid those steps, that dark beating inside my chest, those delusions that overpower my tongue and speak the legacy of their own sin. These dreams are still dead, their corpses linger in my head,

but here I can burn them, see the light of their flames, sniff in their ashes, and then open my eyes to the dull glimmer and the thick shadows of the cave of my kin until finally, only fleeting could’ves are left,

winding through my lungs, escaping with my breath. I breathe out their ashes, stand on my toes, and reach towards the stars, But they always slip through my fingers.

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