The Good Ole’ Sandman has brushed against his eyes. She breathes
The lamp upon the nightstand is killed,
And she releases her head atop a feathered pillow
at the foot of the bed.
A fireplace doused of flame smolders in ash.
Framed pictures hide faces and shows the flappy tail.
All of my life, people told me to make sense, but I’d rather not anymore.
A stirring dream the night before brought revelation to now.
Curtains seal in the mourn that tries to reach the moon.
Above and beyond, the mind catapults terrible memories over a barricading wall,
That apparently was too short to keep The Potente of Crimson thwarted.