1/3/07

Between the spaces
(where you are not you
and I am not I
but my hand melts with yours
and the sky still spins)
every instant is a revolution
of the mind
and the grass is neither green
nor sweet but brittle and white.
Above is only black with no stars
and suddenly I'm staring at my ceiling.
The walls lift from the ground
and become solid again,
a sort of demented barn-raising
that makes it feel like prison,
and the bars on the windows
swell and pop and slither
toward me.
I try to run but my hand...
My hand is melted to yours
and you're asleep.
Your lips are a sick blue-white
and they twitch to form
inaudible words.
I beg to hear them
but you won't speak any louder.
Your mouth twitches faster
and faster.
I try again to run.
The pale skin and purple scars
stratch but do not break.
The bars snake closer.
I only see reflections of light
on the shining silver.
I try not to cry, cowering in the corner,
but a tear escapes
and becomes a missile
seeking the silver serpents.
Upon collision, the missile
makes a splash, sending shrapnel
into the others.
They turn a warm red-brown,
disintegrate,
scream.
But is the scream theirs,
or mine?
My hand is relieved of yours
and you are standing over me,
repeating my name...