Poem: Limbo

 

Limbo

 

uncertain at 3am

if it is a fox or the wail of a stabbed girl,

or an owl berating the asylum, 

i rolled the two faces of my skull,

right to dark, left to bright,

and underestimated, as always,

how drunk with sleep my fancies were;

and how truthful and terrible

rode the visions in their logic.

the self itself 

swallowed

by this careless place, where timelines knotted;

where specters could be loves not yet birthed,

and infants, perhaps, became awful ghosts 

in a lack-of theater where lions

devoured what they capsized in front of you;

and you witness the red gulps

without a shield of fear, 

only wonder at these chimeras 

very much indifferent to your loss,

very much different from your hopes,

unable to leave.

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6/29/24

If you are reading this sometime after WWIII, which is a quite likely occurrence at the moment, well, that would make you an archeologist or an extraterrestrial.  Let me just say to you, at your distant vantage from me, this:  owls were pretty cool creatures.