dream 12
A man’s face appears, adorned
in peyote buttons and bones,
hung from a great wooden piling.
His eyes’ heavy gaze fell over me
like stones displaced from some
drowned and forgotten quarry.
The jagged line of his mouth
had been carved by hand and shone
against the dark like abalone.
He spoke abruptly,
with an onslaught of sound.
The way dynamite reminds the mountain:
limit your hopes. I woke on a bed of nails,
earlier than the Sun could bare
to show itself. To thunder crashing outside,
the same way a dead man might
down an endless flight of stairs.
About the Creator
Sean
A lover of soft cheese and delayed gratification. I prefer plants to people, more often than not. Dirt is my medicine and filth a form of therapy. Most of these words should find a home among compost but hey, at least I'm still writing.
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