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,

how truthful and terrible

the visions in their logic.

the self itself 

swallowed

by this knotty place of careless timelines

where specters could be loves not yet birthed,

and infants, perhaps, became awful ghosts 

in a lack-of theater where lions

devoured what capsizes in front of you.

and you witness the red gulps

without a shred of fear, 

only to wonder at these chimeras,

and you shrug indifferent to your loss,

indifferent to your hopes, as well,

unable to leave.

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11/30/25

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.