her dream box by: Steven Beauchamp
A labyrinth memorized,
A habit waking before dawn, everyday, at night.
Too dark alone with her thoughts,
Ghostly figures across distant, half-visible sky,
Practically invisible as the horizon dawns.
Single wanderers captured in scrolling pixels,
The image like spirits she turned off and on again.
Something of a freak show to see had vanished
Into the mist of reality.
Hooded figures in muggy gloom buried in the mist--
So beautiful, so fresh--insisted on privacy.
The excavation of her fear seemed harmless,
Out there in the for--but the damage glistened
Inside her eyes.
Her hidden path waiting, foraging, salvaging,
A little treasure; and after all, still sleeping.
Frightened by a strange battle each morning before dawn,
She had to guard the expedition all through
The cracked night.
The haze of color began to dissipate, that distant bell rang,
Its single note vibrated in the air.
The heat against her face that morning
Was waiting to greet her again.
It was clear she was supposed to control
the tempest born at night.
Leave a Reply.