Phantasmagoria

 

The greatest idea for a poem

came to me in a dream.

 

It seemed that way at first, but then

I guess I was never really one

for meaning, I tend to place it

where it is not due. Sometimes,

too much. So this time, I won’t.

 

A body on a sidewalk, covered

with the thick gray cloth used to take

the place of galvanized iron. There appears

to be a murder, for bodies are all around. Some

motionless but breathing, what difference

does it make to a passer-by — apparently, none.

 

I was headed to the church.

Perhaps in dreams I have yet

to suspend belief, or I retain but

have yet to claim otherwise.

Faith is separated

from reality, but in dreams

anything was possible.

 

Still, I called out and yelped “God”

a sudden

loosening of the folds, a contraction

of breath, regardless of who that may be

 

when

a hand reached

across,  gripped

my left foot and looked

at me with pale eyes that

have long been lifeless before they even

met death.

 

The voice, coming

now from all directions, although reduced

to a whisper, asking

me to join him.

 

And I wondering

why not.

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