Archive
03/04/09
That Hole
The dream you suffered, last night/early this morning (You've never been able to gauge whether they occur Immediately before waking or in a.m.'s deepest reaches), Wreaked great bodily harm, on your psyche, In ways that would haunt you longer than you'd ever know.
All you could be assured of was that trauma set in. That dream was a brown-recluse-spider bite, Venomously withering your mind's tender epidermis, Creating a necrotic crater the size of a foxhole, In and out of which you, like a WWI doughboy, kept crawling.
Whatever you might have been escaping from, escaping to, Was never disclosed. All you knew was that the pain, That protracted subterranean cranial migraine, Finally rendered your brain an erupting volcano, A suppurating six-foot-deep hole rejecting your essence,
Forcing you, like an ash mote, up an invisible heat vent In the far side of midnight's steep sleep-slope, Thrusting you so high into consciousness, above sunrise, You were left with nothing but that hole In which to bury forgetting's oneiric memories.
03/04/09
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