Bad penny dreams

In a lull, the wind reeds and drops

to deviation of held breath at 1am,

stops the mechanic of clocks that chime

and drum up the business of time

as something finds its way in 

through nook or key hole,

and innocence retreats.

These visions with glass eyes of unnamed

things that will return; bad penny dreams

that wend their way through slumber

as if they were troops marching out your heartbeat,

or psychic mutterings made wild-eyed and prostrate,

a shadow that pools in the glut of the mind 

and we look in searching for our own reflection,

but find the skewed, only distorted words splayed out

like inky webs on blotting paper - words that bolt 

for refuge back to alphabet.

Incantations dissolve to whispers as the tall trees

in the forest knife the sky, and clouds charge across it

as if they were on horseback, the hours held, restrained

like dogs on leashes and we wake from these dreams

uncertain and afraid, gasping to the dawn.

Though I do not believe in these symbols, do I?

Magic or gods, fate or the taboo of words, 

the power of dreams, no, 

I do not think I can live under the sway of such things.

Image from pixabay.