Torpor

By
Peeling off petals of blitzkrieg,
blistered mind, a subconscious split

by cadences sputtering the claps
of snares. A fanfare of shells

in a cracked skull. Guerilla ghosts
no longer visit his world. Molten chords

of singed fragments choked in his
cerebrum. Imagination now the ravaged library

of Alexandria, factions of flames braided
into smoke against the gray-sky ceilings of

eyelid insides. In slumber, he no longer
sensationalizes.

He cannot see blood-red crescendo
over pyramids sandstone sprawling,

cannot dance across the crests
of sparrows’ sing-song calling.

Cannot play violins carved from the finest
ivory, recalling the congealed-in-quietness

concerto squeezed fresh from the
fruit of pulsing membranes. Continents

and pitch forks, regattas and rocket ships,
the promising foothills and loops of copper hair,

a uniformity of nothingness in his paradoxical sleep,
everything in the company of numbness. And now he lies

a blind-deaf mind, stagnant
with dreams conspicuously undreamt.





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