From the Dreamscape

Eye death

Eye death. Non-commercial use. (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Two figures lurch across an open field. These brothers come to stand mere feet apart, eyes locked as their hands steady above their belts. There are guns, somewhere, and knives eneath these, but the hands do not betray the moments–they know their duty to the instant, and so they wait. Morose reflections in a quaking mirror. One dark, one light–the clothes and the motions distinguish them, but no other differences pass between.

Pacing, pacing. Eyes close to the crunch of hard grass.

The twin illusions stop, fingers dancing along the surface of their weapons. Both draw, though only one fires before the instant has passed them by. The man in white lumbers and sways, clutching at his throat as thick rivulets of scarlet cascade down his pale flesh to dribble at his feet. Hope smothered in crimson denial–the reflections shimmer and fade as one image drops into the dust.

Darkness stretches as a shaking hand stretches out to him. He stares into the eyes of the fallen, but pays his hand no heed. Eventually, it slackens and falls, desperately scratching at the dirt. The shadows are cold. Though smiling beneath crazed eyes, the survivor’s dry hands fold hot and delicate over one knee. He’s stifling a laugh.

Poor fool. Certain things are set in stone. You cannot change what you aren’t destined to achieve. At any rate, you don’t have the will to do so. Checkmate. Endgame.


Now departing…life.

A low, thundering note begins to stir as one cold, clammy hand reaches down to tangle in the soft locks of the broken reflection. Fingers coil and toy.

The image vanishes altogether.

Scene shift. Reel missing. Technical difficulties: don’t mind the wait. The beat is stirring, the tempo gathering as the bass begins to build.

A storm stirs.

(Part 1. To be continued.)

One more night

Jacob's Dream, by Adam Elsheimer. Image care of Wikimedia Commons.

Child wakes

the deep dark drink


lost somewhere between

the closet and the sheets,

mother’s cries no assurance

to the ones that can still see.

Only bears might be knights

to ward reality another night;

only dolls might soothe the tears

of time’s inevitable drum.

One more night, they cry,

and the pillow does oblige.

* After the theme of imagination I laid out yesterday, I thought it only appropriate to offer up a poem to it too. It is a precious gift, mankind was given. A tragic fact that it is too often lost as the child drifts into adulthood…

Long Journeys

Gold paths contain fine meals,

thousands to the dollared flesh

divined by rare suit gestures—

even time’s hand a sacred cost.


To the bursting, cries the chef

as I lay my body down,

waiting for the planes

to burn this hollow out.


Snow frosts the window panes

beyond man’s wheels,

ice gathers undertone, underfoot

scaling climbing souls.


Is it déjà vu?


Nestled in the mountains

I dip within the brook,

at once sinking to the chill,

yet sunward bound.


There is a drink of maple

spread beside the banks

where this tired spirit

might ponder yet the lost.


There is silence in the breeze,

the break of waves like men

signaling open seas beyond clouds,

an open breath for crossing.

*Welcome, one and all, to the the Waking Den, and to my latest offering to the good times over at dVerse Poets Pub. I hope you like what you’ve seen, and I look forward to reading your works as well, but I’ve also got a big announcement to make, and in case any of you lot missed it yesterday, I thought I’d leave you all with a link: Forgiving the giddiness of a younger writer for a moment, I also add: more announcements to follow in the days to come – exciting no?

Thank you for all your support! It’s a lovely community we have here in this blogosphere.


A turnkey sparks the dragons

Where crystal twilight trickles.


Smeared shadows mourn looking glass—

No more.

Mother primes the engine,

Tear-laden, rain-streaked, the world—

Can you see it?

The rain,

Where it falls

It dances on the starlight of our—

Passing dreams.

The child seeks winged flames

Wreathed and wrought of golden beams,

Of fancies crafted, never birthed

But it’s not there, it never were

It’s Neverwhere for a reason, not—

Do they pay for lies?

What is a truth but

Some vision we go weaving

Through the strands of our reality,

This Life,

You can call strands what you will:

Good artists never see

Whole pictures till they’re through,

No more than wars and wyverns

Have the whole taste

Till the meal’s all burnt up.

It’s not a feast.

It’s nothing but.

Life is what you see.

Life is what you see—

But the picture’s spinning like a top

Balanced on the mind’s own eye.

* Got to get my writer’s self back into this blogging groove. It’s been a while since I’ve greeted you all with some poetry, so I hope you like this latest little bit of internal drama from this humble writer’s pen. Furthermore, I’m linking her up to the good folks at dVerse Poetry Pub, and tonight I do believe I’m going to go hunting back through all those other poets from whom I have been so long parted.

Additionally, I’m currently on the market for some good reading…if any of you have any writers or books to suggest, lay them on me, will you? I’m lost if I’m not feeding the literature beast within my soul!