Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Sonnet #33

There's a dream that comes at night,

Where demons come to take from me
My imagination holds a feathered light
The monsters cackle, sets it free
They have new faces every time,
Last night it was a Viking God,
A twisted mask of wood and bone
Sometimes they're bears, feral, broad
Other times, they're birds of pecked fruit
But always slipping out with something
Cackling, gloating, dancing, endless hoots
When I wake, I recall only theft, not the thing.
What is stolen? I don't know - as if it's never 
real, a hole in hope, a dreamscape of a sever.


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