My brother woke me late last night,
to tell me a most peculiar dream.
He claimed it grew increasingly sharp away from the light,
"The blade was dull on the guillotine.
"They pulled at my legs with all their might,
"and my head rolled down the hill with great speed it seemed,
"I skipped right past the happy children,
"and rolled my eyes at the sappy postman."
"What news did he deliver I wonder?"
Egregious ink, refusing to apologize.
"And now, sweet brother, does the heart still sunder?"
Ambivalently strong, she hides her bloody eyes.
"Does the soul not ring of passing thunder?"
Archaic wisdom, I'm sure, will strip from her demise.
Then he left my room, clumsy in the dark,
alone inside my own head, I set off in search for a spark.
Lack of sleep parched me, so I had a cold drink.
Now I wander restlessly, in my secondhand robe, warming me as best can.
Rusty water quickly overflows the dark sink,
a mix of melancholy hydrogen and hopeful oxygen.
Where is the morning? Where is the spark? I think.
Tucked away under new ceilings, still mistaking thickness for thin.
Lofty late laughter lingers still in my ears,
I'll wake up soon, and find my way out of here.