A chasing wolf pack Hunting across midnight moors, Wild and weary, Noses leading to my scent, Awaiting, expecting, devouring.
A hollow in the crowd, A bubble of purity, Singular, within, Burning only, one in flames Licking around the believer.
Still falling from pages A waterfall of verbiage. The description runs, Pooling in paragraphs Draining away the poesy.
Enter daydreamer, Blindfolded, shackled and lost, Rebounding from one Half-formed, bloated grotesque to Another, without a sense.
Still light arises, Hauling a mirage of day To provoke delight And stoke the ashes of the Crumbled husks of night terrors.
My pitiful room, Discontent with a feeble Lacerated curtain Resigned to a flat, listless Impediment of light and sleep.
Statuesque mornings Numbly lit by diluted Grey held captive in Tumbling, rampant storm clouds Wound tight over the roughed dawn.
Souvenirs in minds, Surrealist, visceral views Of Soliloquies That vanish with clouds of grime, Pollute daffodils by water.
Volunteer to me A relic of owl feathers Dangling from oak, Set it high, near glass, Let it snare my night visions.
Don’t gather sphagnum From courtyard fences partly Overgrown at dawn When phantoms of older days Will tire from chasing time.