Hypnos

a stream of ants travel up and down over old words;

a codex etched in the furrowed brow of an oak tree.

the initiated few sometimes read through layers of meaning

seeing the face of truth. [it's not what you think]


meanwhile: dark entoptic gods flash behind a childs' eyes

while crows bark over the sussurus of august night-rain.

cereus petals unfold, drinking moonlight.


if only we could all wake up

wake up!

from our dreamlife; this nodding false awareness

that passes each day as a languid television river or else

an object-fetish buying frenzy;

if only we could smash the screen, claw, claw,

clawing our way out of stifling black sackcloth

to breathe in the waning moonlight as it gently coaxes the cereus

closed.


the truth is a slippery thing, it slides just out of focus

floating in the periphery, a smudge on the edge of the lens.

[the rippling surface belies the real]

We look for it where it is not; we would do well to remember the

child in the dark

knowing things, hidden in plain view;

ephemeral shades gliding out of sight

frightening in their stark simplicity

unfathomable and alien;

but certainly as real as these words.


©jrs