The trouble of childhood psychosis roots in perspective.
When nightmares walk, the dream that rests becomes preferred reality.
Waking senses compound, becoming more than their parts into a ruminating symphony
The same dream presses into my head
The reflection on the oak floor flames
Before me is me
Barely seven if I were to guess.
She sits on the burning floor staring up at stranger us.
And behind her is everything that will eat at her
Restrained by the thin veil of time
Waiting patiently their turn behind a child none the wiser, sitting before someone she does not recognize.
The consequencal product of horrors at her flank, staring right back at her wordless, warning-less.
For in this dream I cannot speak
And if I were?
Shall I suggest she lay her thoughts flat against her senses?
To fill herself with boyant thought and give rise to a mind that will sink feverishly for years before it finally cracks open.
Warn her of substance in echos?
For the dream always ends the same
I begin to rot before her
My head falls through my teeth
My hands mottle
And the seven year old before me is drawn from the room by someone whose face I can't make out.
Until my only company is a burning room and the 23 years of horror that has filled it.
And I lie there silently, pressed against the floor until I wake.
Once awake, I don't dare open my eyes.
Masses often follow me wakeward from my sleep and paralyze me.
This is a dream I know I will wake paralyzed from.
Lying there horrified.
Still rotting on that burning floor.
