Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

Respite

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

multi-somnia

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.

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.