Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable


Sleep’s tendrils twist,
entwine each eyelash,
lids like breakers fall.
Hands lie folded in orison,
lips have ceased to ask.


In one she lies in bloody paroxysms
eyes flutter
In another strolls beside me without a scar
eyes flutter
In others my brothers genuflect
eyes flutter
In this my nephew fills a fresh-dug grave


Dreams come before me with familiar casts and scripts. Without a moment of confusion I find my mark. All the details fill me.

In this one the hall runs this direction.
In that one a dumbwaiter descends to horror.
Above the garage is a thing of power.
Can I cope with the thought that he’s gone?

But is it all fluttering eyes and subconscious process? Is it all imagination, creation of minutiae? Or do I connect to something else? Does my mind instead find someone somewhere beyond the curtain? Someone in a mystic place. Someone with a home like mine or a darling child that inevitably wastes away.

Sometimes I think it’s just too familiar. Sometimes these dozens of revisits wear at my certainty.

In the hierarchy of dreams, for me, these hold portent.