Who cares what fabric dreams are made of
when reality dresses up in such
In the heart of the night daytime is frozen,
demons hang around like icicles,
dripping distorted sound bites,
waiting for the night to snap off the light.
The sun and the moon both like to glint on blades.
Time and distance waltz around in the dust,
ring upon ting of blackened roses.
Fingers tick seconds,
and when hands cross
time locks up the hour.
Screams try to fend off fantasy but they
still feel the fragments of glass
form between toes,
and note that nothing moves
when everything’s bending.
It is quite simple; sleep is numb and will come.
Go on, attempt to unlace your ice locked shoes,
there is nothing to fear;
blood doesn’t bleed in the imagination.
Terror’s territory is patrolled with
the tiny pitter-patter of truth that
extinguishes candles as it goes.
But how it loves to loiter,
especially on old stained landings;
in the swish of unseen satin,
and in the creek of loose floorboards.
But what if day’s time is