My dreams are carnivores, they’re less of knifes
but more from lead. The night’s a lizard harpsichord,
it’s heavy footfalls of ungrateful deads. Outside
owls; my head’s a cockroach nest, it’s spider-
webbed, a sacrificial lamb of my poetry unspent.
Yet, when soot of darkness talons grip my chest
I draw from hope a string of pearls, a pebbled path
that leads with gentle hands my feet on needled
soil towards the break of dawn. To sanity and sense
Awake! And all pretense of dreams and demons wilt.
A little writing preparing for bed linked to Tuesday Platform on toads.
October 11, 2016