It was smeared with crimson etching, the cloud's upper lining...
Looking closer, were ranks of daemons clad in rich red robes, grinning
You felt a pang of amusement in your chest, a thrill with sudden jolting
Beguiled, you shrank in size and made it outside
the window, in the sky sailing
There you were welcomed by the fiendish brethren in thunderous applauding
How you sought your way out was mystery beyond unfolding
You were Alice in a miniscule garment, atop a wing chair standing
Summoned to an alien room—an important quest
at hand, initiating
A ploy designed for your enemy's downfall, who was best at condescending...
(the ground rippled, trembled, and began splitting)
...you were greeted by your mother's face as you wake, your forehead sweating
You said, "I was definitely not dreaming."
And you knew it was only the beginning
Your face was smeared with crimson etching, a cloud with no lining...
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
