Heavy, unforgivable dreams, despair, Hard breathing, the omnipresent air, Whistle beneath my brain a tribal tune Uncaught by inner ear since Stonehenge rune. 5 Waking in a shuddered fever Unconscious of pattern or the weather, Ripped apart by an ambulance scream, Torn to storm-cloud crepe in dreams, The question presents itself undressed: 10 What's happening? Where's Death? What's my cause, my case, my crux? Horror stirred to eloquence Returns the steady stare, Blatant or beady, that I did not dare. 15 By failure of vision we unite Where all the candles refuse to light At the black bottom of a bowl or ditch Where every nerveless hand fumbles for the switch.
From the collection "The Sword Inside"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.