Poem: Limbo

 

Limbo

 

uncertain at 4am

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

or an owl berating this asylum, 

i roll the two faces of my skull,

right to dark, left to bright,

and underestimate, as always,

how drunk with sleep my fancies are;

and how truthful and terrible

ride the visions in their logic.

 

this mental place where timelines knot,

where specters could be loves not yet birthed,

and infants, perhaps, the most awful ghosts--

this is where lions

devour what they capsize in front of you;

and you witness the red gulps

without the chance to fear, only wonder,

while the symbols transform,

very much indifferent to your loss,

yet in a different way, once more,

too strange.

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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.