pavor nocturnus

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
bad dream

Submitted: May 22, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 22, 2013




a hallway built from centuries of flesh,

the untranscendent stuff that we might eat or

fear, generational food for many more

than the most brilliantly acclaimed despots.

a hall for walking down without legs.

but what do i remember from before: a hospital room

in the white it ought to have been without instruments

or the synthetic clack of machines pumping fluid life,

two dead men who were not (in the simplest terms),

who stood up to excrete their last in an explosive off-yellowish deluge

that ran after my feet.

i left with others, seemingly young but knowing more than i 

the history of men they carried on their tongues,

a germanic heritage sacrosanct.

there was no water that was not human,

this was an abdomen with only one road and i should have known that

but in the last minutes clinging to the ruddy, unmade bodies of

my comrades, my mouth manages breath in this place bereft of air,

and i want to know where i am going--

this is where: digestion, organic undoing (my sweat is the purest

liquid, a river drying up to its source pore) yet there's insurgence

in my mind, the last despairing riots name love as a savior

but my mouth is purely symbolic now. i imagine the logicians

have been burst by god, and if i was in love i've only known it for the past

few seconds.

in this hallway are the pillars of my own limbs, i am not holding myself up.

this is dread, this is absurd and i see the devil is bones,

just bones.

© Copyright 2018 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.