Disaster Dreamer

I dream of disasters because they are safe.

They soothe the screaming, wailing child

Locked inside the shadowed curves of bone

Within which nothing survives.

Nothing but her.

.

I dream of dilapidated homes and dead eyes,

Tremoring hands that have finally been settled

By the firm grip of death and his paralyzing bite.

I dream of haunted tombstones

And the early morning fog left over from the crying night.

.

I hunger for red horizons where the world has sunk

To the same sort of burning that my heart yearns for

Because while they cry and weep and beg

For something else, anything else,

I weep because I am finally home.

.

The flames cannot burn me.

The meteors and asteroids and comets

Kiss the top of my head and leave me smiling

In a trail of frozen, twinkling ice and dust.

The world could fall to ruins.

.

I would be unscathed.

Standing lonely amidst the drifting ash.

Untouched by the emotionless explosions of chaos

Erupting around the places that once broke my bones

And froze my heart.

.

It was the cement and stones and wood frames

That left bruises on my skin and blood on my back.

It was words and taunts and silver knives

That left scars on my skin and a tremor in my hands.

The disasters gave me nothing.

.

They did not leave me weeping

Nor did I escape with barely my life in my hands.

The disasters stole the abusers.

They destroyed the memories bled into castles and stones.

And so I will always call these disasters home.

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Silver Serpent Books

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