Open Swoon Sunday

Lying on
a quicksand bed

cobweb gazing

as Sunday fades
into weak willed
wonder

music swooning

this badly drawn boy
paints hazed
celluloid soundscapes
in sepia

a honeysuckle spring
turned ghost world

in shadows
he waltzes

tripping then clutching

a frayed dried rope
scratching red hands
pulling reluctant history
from a deep menagerie

in blanket sweat dream
he swallows a heart beat
sucks it awake again

relieving him
for just moments